xO O. 




" Fedalma entered, cast away the cloud 
Of serge and linen, and, outbeaming bright, 
Advanced a pace towards Silva." Page 83. 



THE 



POEMS 



GEORGE ELIOT. 



Complete lEtJition. 



WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 



33 



SCHELL, TAYLOR, ST. JOHN HARPER, 

AND OTHERS, 



•fOFCl 



'^m 






NEW YORK: 
THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. 

No. 13 AsTOR Place. 






Copyright, 1884, 
By T. Y. Ckowell & Co. 



/Z 



-3/f;^- 



?ffnt(jtrsitn ^rtss: 
John WasoN and Son, Cambridge. 



CONTENTS. 



Page 
George Eliot as a Poet , 7 

The Spanish Gypsy. Book 1 21 

The Spanish Gypsy. Book II 139 

The Spanish Gypsy. Book III 185 

The Spanish Gypsy. Book IV 233 

The Spanish Gypsy. Book V 269 

The Legend of Jubal 283 

Agatha , 307 

Armgart 320 

How Lisa loved the King 361 

A Minor Prophet 381 

Brother and Sister 391 

Stradivarius 398 

A College Breakfast-Party 403 

Two Lovers 428 

Self and Life 430 

" Sweet Evenings come and go, Love " 433 

The Death of Moses 434 

Arion 438 

"Oh, may I JOIN the Choir invisible" 441 



LIST OF ILLUSTEATIONS 

DRAWN AND ENGRAVED UNDER THE SUPERVISION OF 
GEORGE T. ANDREW. 



' Fedalma entered, cast away the cloud 

Of sei-ge and linen, and, outbeaming bright. 

Advanced a pace towards Silva" . . . W. St. John Harper. 

Frontispiece 

" This deep mountain gorge 

Slopes widening on the olive-plumed plains 

Of fair Granada" F. B. ScHELL .... 21 

■ A figui-e lithe, all white and saffron-robed. 

Flashed right across the circle "... W. L. Taylor .... 65 

My Father .... cornea .... my Father" W. St. John Harper . 118 

■ His doublet loose, his right arm backward flung, 
His left caressing close the long-uecked lute." 

W. L. Shefpard ... 187 

" Ay, 't is a sword 
That parts the Spanish noble and the true Zincala." 

W. St. John Harper . 218 

" Down 
Fell the great Chief, and Silva, staggering back, 
Heard not the shriek of the Zincali " W. L. Sheppard ... 261 



6 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Artist Page 

" Their sails . , . 

Like broad wings poised " E. H. Garrett .... 269 

" Then Jubal poured his triumph in a song." 

W. St. Joh:n Harper . 293 

" He sought the screen 
Of thorny thickets, and there fell unseen " W. St. John Harper . 304 

" Come with me to the mountain " . . . F. B. Schell .... 307 

" Place for the queen of song ! " ... Robert Lewis .... 323 

" Across the homestead to the rookeiy elms, 
Whose tall old trunks had each a grassy mound." 

W. H. Shelton ... 392 

" Fair Countess Linda sat upon the bench, 
Close fronting the old knitter " . . . W. L. Taylor .... 311 

" Armgart, dear Armgart, only speak to me." 

Robert Lewis .... 342 

" Two lovers by a moss-grown spring " . W. L. Tatior .... 428 



GEORGE ELIOT AS A POET. 



{From the Contemporary Review, vol. viii. j). 397.) 

As if a strong, delightful water that we knew only as a river 
appeared in the character of a fountain ; as if one whom we 
had wondered at as a good walker or inexhaustible pedes- 
trian, began to dance ; as if Mr. Bright, in the middle of a 
public meeting, were to oblige the company with a song, — 
no, no, not like that exactly, but like something quite new, — 
is the appearance of George Eliot in the character of a poet. 
" The Spanish Gypsy," a poem in five books, originally writ- 
ten, as a prefatory note informs us, in the winter of 1864-65, 
and, after a visit to Spain in 1867, re-written and amplified, 
is before us. It is a great volume of three hundred and fifty 
octavo pages ; and the first thing which strikes the reader is, 
that it is a good deal longer than he expected it would be. 
This is bad, to begin with. What right has anybody to make 
a poem longer than one expected ? The next thing that 
strikes one is, — at all events, the next thing that struck me 
was, as I very hastily turned over the book, — that the fine 
largo of the author's manner, continued through so many 
pages, was a very little burdensome in its effect. That may 
come of the specific levity of my taste ; but it is as well to 
be quite frank. 

Dr. Holmes, of Boston, says, — I fear I am repeating my- 
self, as he did with his illustration of the alighting huma, — 



8 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

that a poem is like a violin in the respect that it needs to be 
kept and used a good deal before you know what music there 
is in it. If that is so, what may here be said of George 
Eliot's poem will have but little value ; for the book has only 
been in my hand a few days, at a time when my preoccupa- 
tion is great, and reading is painful to me. But, in the first 
place, I do really think my hasty impressions are correct in 
this case ; and, in the second, I shall find some way of re- 
turning to the book, if after very often-repeated readings 
(according to my habit) I alter any of my opinions. 

In the Argosy I once gave reasons for looking forward with 
deep interest to anything George Eliot might do in the shape 
of poetry, and also hinted the direction in which her risk of 
greater or less failure appeared to me to lie. " You can never 
reckon up these high-strung natures, ever ready to be re-im- 
pregnated," or tell what surprises they may have in store for 
you. It had often struck me that there was a vein of poetic 
expression in the writing of George Eliot, of which a hundred 
instances might have been given. But the question of ques- 
tions remained : Had she such a power, not to say necessity, 
of spontaneous expression in verse, that when we saw her 
poetry we should inevitably say, as Milton said of himself, 
that the expression in verse was the right-hand speech, that 
in prose the left-hand speech ? How fine are the shades or 
gradations of quality in this respect, can be little understood 
by those who have not, by instinct or otherwise, fed, so to 
speak, on verse. Eor example, we all know that Wordsworth 
often wrote, in the printed form of verse, the most utterly 
detestable prose. Yet he could and did produce most exqui- 
site verse. Again, a living poet of the school of Wordsworth, 
Mr. Henry Taylor, barely, or little better than barely, enables 
us to say of him that verse is his right-hand and prose his 
left. Still, after some little demur, we are able to say it ; 
and we call him a poet. 



GEORGE ELIOT AS A POET. 9 

It must not be supposed that this is by any means a matter 
of mere fluency, correctness, or ease of numbers. Macaulay 
wrote verses far superior in these particulars to many of Mr. 
Henry Taylor's and many of Wordsworth's. Yet verse was, 
unequivocally, Macaulay's left-hand; and after adolescence, 
few people can read his verse for poetry. If I were not un- 
willing to rouse the prejudice of (I fear !) most of my read- 
ers, I should here add Edgar Poe ; and, indeed, I really can- 
not spare him as an illustration. He must have some queer 
hybrid place, all to himself (which it would take an essay to 
define) ; but though he may be said to have felt verse his 
right-hand medium of expression, some few of us hesitate to 
call him a poet. Not to complicate this matter, let us come at 
once to the point. What is it that in excellent verse differen- 
tiates ^ that which is poetry and that which is not ? Not mere 
fluency, but unconscious fluency ; in a word, simplicity. 
Whatever art may do for the poet, he must be a simple musi- 
cian to begin with. 

In looking rapidly over this poem of George Eliot's I have 
— let me confess it — I have been inclined to fear that this 
" note " of simplicity is wanting. And, in spite of an abun- 
dance of fine passages, I fear, also, there is not the perfect 
fluency of use and wont. It has been maintained, under shel- 
ter of Elizabethan models, that you may do almost anything 
in dramatic blank verse, in the way of lengthening and short- 
ening the line. I object to the doctrine, and maintain that 
the Elizabethan examples cited are, in many instances, mere 
bits of negligence ; and, in others, roughnesses of workmanship 
belonging to the lusty youth of a new art. Blank verse means 
ten-syllable iambic lines. If there are deviations from this 
form, as there often are, and should be, they must be regu- 
lated deviations, not accidental intrusions of other forms. . . . 

1 I have seen this word objected to as a scientific foppery ; but in its form 
of to difference, the verb is a good old English verb. 



10 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

The versification of " The Spanish Gypsy " often breaks out 
into the very highest excellence ; but it too often wants spon- 
taneity and simplicity. 

As the same observation applies to the lyrics, one has little 
hesitation in coming to the conclusion that the primal pecu- 
liarity which distinguishes the singer from the sayer is either 
lacking in George Eliot or that its function has suffered from 
disuse. I still hesitate to say suffered irreparably, because 
I still think the orbit of a genius like George Eliot's incal- 
culable. With such a noble ambition, and such immense 
resources, one may do almost anything. Thus, though I 
confess I noiv think it improbable that George Eliot will ever 
exhibit in a poem the true simplicity of the singer, and compel 
her readers to admit that her music is better than her speech, 
I hesitate, or well-nigh hesitate, in saying even so much as 
that. It is very pathetic that a noble ambition should come 
so near its mark and yet fail. Only what are we to do ? The 
truth must be spoken. 

Against the presumption raised by the bulk of the writing 
must, in fairness, be set the evidence of particular passages, 
in which the author attains such high excellence that if one 
had seen those passages alone, there would have been no 
hesitation or doubt on the score of melody. A few of these, 
in some of which the reader will catch fine touches of Eliza- 
bethan inspiration, I will pick out of the mass. 

Take, for an example, this description of Zarca : — 

" He is of those 
Who steal the keys from snoring Destiny 
And make the prophets lie." 



And this 



" My vagabonds are a seed more generous, 
Quick as the serpent, loving as the hound, 
And beautiful as disinherited gods. 
They have a promised land beyond the sea." 



And this 



And tliis : 



GEORGE ELIOT AS A POET. 11 



' Spring afternoons, when delicate shadows fall 
Pencilled upon the grass ; high summer morns 
When white light rains upon the quiet sea 
And corn-fields flush with rii 



" Present and silent and unchangeable 
As a celestial portent." 

Lastly, the best lyric in the poem : — 

" The world is great : the birds all fly from me, 
The stars are golden fruit upon a tree 
ALL out of reach : my little sister went, 
And I am lonely. 

" The world is great : I tried to mount the hill 
Above the pines, where the light lies so still, 
But it rose higher : little Lisa went, 
And I am lonely. 

" The world is great : the wind comes rushing by, 
I wonder where it comes from ; sea-birds cry 
And hurt my heart ; my little sister went, 
And I am lonely. 

" The world is great : the people laugh and talk. 
And make loud holiday : how fast they walk ! 
I 'm lame, they push me : little Lisa went, 
And I am lonely." 

Besieges the want of spontaneity and simplicity in the 
verse, there are other points which make us feel, with what- 
ever reluctance to admit the thing we undoubtingly see, that 
in " The Spanish Gypsy " something is wanting, and in that 
something everything that endears a poem as a poem. The 
writing has the diffuseness of literature rather than the con- 
densation of poetry ; and, admirable as some of it is, we wish 
it away : at the lowest, we say to ourselves, if a poet had had 



12 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

to utter this, our pleasure would have been perfect ; but, as it 
is, what is before us is almost too good, and yet it is not good 
enough ; it does not compel us to think, le poete a le frisson, 
either while we read or afterwards. There is too much 
aggregation and accumulation about it ; we are set thinking, 
and set feeling ; we are agitated ; but we are not thrilled by 
any single sudden notes. Lastly, or all but lastly, some of 
the frequent touches of humorous detail are fatal : — 
" Enter the Duke, Pablo, and Annihal, 
Exit the cat, retreating towards the dark." 

This, and all this kind of thing, is gravely wrong in a poem. 
In some cases the phraseology has this species of modern 
familiarity and curtness ; in others, the equally distinguish- 
able largo of the modern philosophic manner, while what is 
supremely needed, namely, finish, is what we in vain go 
longing for. 

Finally, the intellectual groundwork, or outline, of the poem 
shows far too plainly under the coloring of passion and the 
movement of the story. Since "Silas Marner" we have had 
no book from George Eliot to which this criticism would not, 
in some degree, be applicable. There is not room here for 
any exhibition of all the recurring ideas of George Eliot's 
writings, but one in particular has been growing more and 
more prominent since " Silas Marner," and of which the first 
hint is in " The Mill on the Floss." " If the past is not to 
bind us," said Maggie Tulliver, in answer to the importu- 
nities of Stephen Guest, " what is ? " In a noticeable and 
well-remembered review of Mr. Lecky's " History of Ration- 
alism," George Eliot told us that the best part of our lives 
was made up of organized traditions (I quote from memory, 
but the meaning was plain). Putting these two things to- 
gether, we get the intellectual ground-plan of "The Spanish 
Gypsy." Perhaps the illustrious author of the poem would 
resent the idea that any moral was intended to be conveyed 



GEORGE ELIOT AS A POET. 13 

by her recent writings ; but, assuredly, tbis moral is tbrust 
upon us everywhere, in a way which implies, if not intention, 
very eager belief. 

Leaving the workmanship and the intellectual conception, 
or interwoven moral criticism, of the poem, and coming to 
the story, I am sure of only echoing what all the world will 
say when I call this in the highest degree poetic ; and poeti- 
cally dramatic, too. I must add, and with emphasis, that 
the story seems to me to gain, as a story, by this mode of 
presentation, — as I firmly believe "Eomola" would have 
gained, if the question of perfect poetic expression could 
have been got over. In other words, although the manner 
of the novelist too often obtrudes itself in "The Spanish 
Gypsy," the author has told the story more affectingly, and 
with much more of truthfulness and local color and manner, 
than she would have done if she had been writing it as a 
novel. Compare, for example, what I think are among the 
very finest things George Eliot has ever done, — the scene 
between Juan the troubadour and the Gypsy girls, at -the 
opening of Book III., and the scene in which Don Amador 
reads to the retainers of Don Silva from ''Las Siete Par- 
tidas " the passage beginning, " Et esta gentileza aviene en 
tres maneras" (the critical reader who stumbles at the "et" 
must be informed that this is thirteenth-century Spanish), — 
compare these two scenes, I say, with the first scene in the 
barber's shop, and the scene of the Florentine joke, in "Eo- 
mola," and note how very much the author gains by assuming 
the dramatic form. I have heard readers of much critical 
ability, and much poetic and dramatic instinct, too, complain 
that they did not see the force of those scenes in " Komola ; " 
but it must be an incredibly dull person that misses the force 
of those scenes in " The Spanish Gypsy." The love-passages, 
also, are exquisitely beautiful ; and in them again the author 
has gained by using the dramatic form. I dare to add that 



14 rOEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

she has, however, lost by some of the (so to speak) " stage- 
directions." We don't want to be told how a man and woman 
of the type of Don Silva and Fedalma ^ look when they are 
saying certain things. We can feel pretty sure when the 
moment would be too sweet and solemn even for kissing. 
As Sam Slick said, "Natur' teaches that air." 

The story of " The Spanish Gypsy " is simply this : Fe- 
dalma, a Zincala, is lost in her early childhood, and brought 
up by a Spanish duchess, Don Silva's mother. As she grows 
to womanhood Silva loves her, and she is on the point of 
marrying him when the narrative opens. But Fedalma's 
father, Zarca, a Gypsy Moses, Hiawatha, or both, devoted 
to the regeneration of his tribe, suddenly appears upon the 
scene and claims his daughter. Will she marry Don Silva, or 
go with her father and be the priestess of a new faith to the 
Zincali ? She decides to accompany her father. Upon this 
Silva renounces his position as a Spanish noble and Christian 
knight and becomes a Zincalo. This implies the relinquish- 
ment of his post as commander of the town and fortress of 
Bed mar, which it is his duty to guard against the Moors ; 
but he is not aware, at the time he takes the Gypsy oath, that 
Zarca is already in league with the Moors to take the for- 
tress. Zarca and the Moors, however, succeed in investing 
the place, and some noble Spaniards, friends of Silva's, in- 
cluding his uncle, Father Isidor, axe slain. Mad with remorse 
and rage, Silva stabs Zarca, but is allowed to go free. The 
poem closes with the departure of Silva to obtain absolution 
from the Pope, in order that he may recommence the career 
of a Christian knight, and the departure of Fedalma to be- 
gin, as best she may, the work bequeathed to her by her 
father, namely, the regeneration of the Zincali. 

1 1 do not remember having ever seen tliis name before ; it is an exqui- 
sitely musical word, and, I suppose, is intended to mean Faith of the Soul ; 
or, more intelligibly to some people (not to be envied), Spiritual Fidelity. 



GEORGE ELIOT AS A POET. 15 

One thing is obvious on the face of this story, — that Silva 
was guilty, in so far as he was an apostate. But there will 
not be wanting readers who when asking the question who 
was the cause of all the misery with which the narrative 
overflows, will say, Fedalma. It was all very well to say 
that her past bound her. But which past ? When Zarca 
started up, she was pledged by her " past " to Silva, and she 
loved him. What Zarca imported into the situation was, as 
lawyers say, new matter. The morrow would have seen her 
married to Silva; and what then, if Zarca had appeared upon 
the stage with his Gypsy patriotism ? All the future was 
dark to her, there was no reason whatever to believe that 
either she or Zarca would be able to regenerate the Gypsies ; 
there was present actual proof that she was essential to Silva, 
life of his life, and the bond of his being. What right had 
she to forsake him ? It is idle to discuss this, but since, as 
far as I can make out, there is distinct teaching in the poem, 
and that teaching is of no force unless Fedalma was, beyond 
question, right, it is perfectly fair and appropriate to suggest 
that there is room for question. It seems to me a little 
curious that George Eliot does not see that the same reason 
Avhich made Sephardo, the astrologer, a son first and a Jew 
afterwards, would make Fedalma a betrothed woman first 
and a Zincala next. 

But I do not dwell upon this point, because I look forward 
to another opportunity of dealing with what we are now 
entitled to assume is George Eliot's evangel, — 

" . . . . that Supreme, the irreversible Past." 

Irreversible, no doubt, but — " Supreme ! " The reader must 
not imagine that I am darting captiously at a word here. 
Not at all. George Eliot has a very distinct meaning, which 
is very distinctly affiliated to a certain mode of thought. To 
this mode of thought may be traced the astounding discords 



16 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

of her late writings, or rather the one astounding discord 
which runs through them. 

In submitting to the world a poem, George Eliot is under 
one serious disadvantage. There are certain particulars in 
which she is not likely, in verse, to excel her own prose. 
Clear and profound conception, and emphatic, luminous, and 
affecting presentation of character, is one of them. The 
power of inventing dramatic situation is another. In these 
particulars " The Spanish Gypsy " falls behind nothing that 
this distinguished writer has done ; though I do not myself 
feel that either Fedalma or Zarca is dramatically presented 
to us. Indeed, vivid as George Eliot's painting of character 
always is, and profoundly intelligent, I never thought it 
dramatic. Nor is it. Here, as in the other books of George 
Eliot, character is always most vividly described and ana 
lyzed ; and what the people do is, of course, in exact accord 
ance with what is described ; but none of them reveal them- 
selves without having had the advantage of some criticism. 
None of them, that is to say, reveal themselves by action 
only, or by action and speech only, unless the speech takes 
a critical form. Zarca is shadowy, and Fedalma shadowy. 
But Juan and Silva we understand well because they are 
criticised ; and Isidor the prior, and Sephardo the Jew, we 
understand well, because their talk is criticism of a kind 
which only a certain order of mind could produce. Perhaps 
the finest portions of the poem lie in some of these critical 
or quasi-critical passages. Let us take "The Astrologer's 
Study " : — 

" A room high up in Abderahman's tower, 

A window open to the still warm eve. 

And the bright disk of royal Jupiter. 

Lamps burning low make little atmospheres 

Of light amid the dimness ; here and there 

Show books and phials, stones and instruments. 

In carved dark-oaken chair, unpillowed, sleeps 



GEORGE ELIOT AS A POET. 17 

Right in the rays of Jupiter a small man, 

In skull-cap bordered close with crisp gray curls, 

And loose black gown showing a neck and breast 

Protected by a dim-green amulet ; 

Pale-faced, with finest nostril wont to breathe 

Ethereal passion in a world of thought ; 

Eyebrows jet-black and firm, yet delicate ; 

Beard scant and grizzled ; mouth shut firm, with curves 

So subtly turned to meanings exquisite. 

You seem to read them as you read a word 

FuU-vowelled, long-descended, pregnaut, — rich 

With legacies from long, laborious lives." 

Juan's criticism of himself : — 

" I can unleash my fancy if you wish 
And hunt for phantoms : shoot an airy guess 
And bring down airy likelihood, — some lie 
Masked cunningly to look like royal trutli 
And cheat the shooter, while King Fact goes free, 
Or else some image of reality 
That doubt will handle and reject as false. ' 
Ask for conjecture, — I can thread the sky 
Like any swallow, but, if you insist 
On knowledge that would guide a pair of feet 
Right to Bedmar, across the Moorish bounds, 
A mule that dreams of stumbling over stones 
Is better stored." 

And, assuredly, I must not omit the study of the character of 
Silva himself : — 

" A man of high-wrought strain, fastidious 
In his acceptance, dreading all delight 
That speedy dies and turns to carrion : 
His senses much exacting, deep instilled 
With keen imagination's difficult needs ; — 
Like strong-limbed monsters studded o'er with eyes. 
Their hunger checked by overwhelming vision. 
Or that fierce lion in symbolic dream 
Snatched from the ground by wings and new-endowed 
With a man's thought-propelled relenting heart. 



18 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Silva was both the lion and the man ; 

First liesitating shrank, then fiercely sprang, 

Or having sprung, turned pallid at his deed 

And loosed the prize, paying liis blood for naught. 

A nature half-transformed, with qualities 

That oft bewrayed each other, elements 

Not blent but struggling, breeding strange effects, 

Passing the reckoning of his friends or foes. 

Haughty and generous, grave and passionate ; 

Witli tidal moments of devoutest awe, 

Sinking anon to farthest ebb of doubt ; 

Deliberating ever, till the sting 

Of a recurrent ardor made him rush 

Right against reasons that himself had drilled 

And marslialled painfully. A spirit framed 

Too proudly special for obedience, 

Too subtly pondering for mastery : 

Born of a goddess with a mortal sire, 

Heir of flesh-fettered, weak divinity. 

Doom-gifted with long resonant consciousness 

And ^perilous heightening of the sentient soul. 

But look less curiously : life itself 

May not express us all, may leave the worst 

And the l)est too, like tunes in mechanism 

Never awaked. In various catalogues 

Objects stand variously." 

There is only one living mind which could have given us 
poetico-psychological studies of human character like these. 
There is no comparison in range of faculty between such a 
mind and John Clare's. Is it not strange, and almost pa- 
thetic, that an uncultivated peasant could sing, and touch us 
with music, as no speech could ; and yet that a highly culti- 
vated mind like George Eliot's should almost overwhelm our 
judgment by the richness and volume of what it pours forth 
in the name of song ; and yet that we are compelled to say 
the bird-note is missing ? 

Matthew Browne. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 




" This deep mountain gorge 
Slopes widening on the olive-plumed plains 
Of lair Granada." 



POEMS 

OP 

GEORGE ELIOT. 

THE SPANISH GYPSY. 

BOOK I. 

'nn IS the warm South, where Europe spreads her lands 

J- Like fretted leaflets, breathing on the deep : 
Broad-breasted Spain, leaning with equal love 
(A calm earth-goddess crowned with corn and vines) 
On the Mid Sea that moans with memories. 
And on the untravelled Ocean, whose vast tides 
Pant dumbly passionate with dreams of youth. 
This river, shadowed by the battlements 
And gleaming silvery towards the northern sky, 
Feeds the famed stream that waters Andalus 
And loiters, amorous of the fragrant air, 
By Cordova and Seville to the bay 
Fronting Algarva and the wandering flood 
Of Guadiana. This deep mountain gorge 
Slopes widening on the olive-plumed plains 
Of fair Granada : one far-stretching arm 
Points to Elvira, one to eastward heights 
Of Alpuj arras where the new-bathed Day 
With oriflamme uplifted o'er the peaks 



22 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Saddens the breasts of northward-looking snows 
That loved the night, and soared with soaring stars ; 
Flashing the signals of his nearing swiftness 
From Almeria's purple-shadowed bay- 
On to the far-off rocks that gaze and glow, — 
On to Alhambra, strong and ruddy heart 
Of glorious Morisma, gasping now, 
A maimed giant in his agony. 
This town that dips its feet within the stream, 
And seems to sit a tower-crowned Cybele, 
Spreading her ample robe adown the rocks. 
Is rich Bedmar : 't was Moorish long ago, 
But now the Cross is sparkling on the Mosque, 
And bells make Catholic the trembling air. 
The fortress gleams in Spanish sunshine now 
('T is south a mile before the rays are Moorish), — 
Hereditary jewel, agraffe bright 
On all the many-titled privilege 
Of young Duke Silva. No Castilian knight 
That serves Queen Isabel has higher charge ; 
For near this frontier sits the Moorish king, 
Not Boabdil the waverer, who usurps 
A throne he trembles in, and fawning licks 
The feet of conquerors, but that fierce lion 
Grisly El Zagal, who has made his lair 
In Guadix' fort, and rushing thence with strength. 
Half his own fierceness, half the untainted heart 
Of mountain bands that fight for holiday. 
Wastes the fair lands that lie by Alcala, 
Wreathing his horse's neck with Christian heads. 

To keep the Christian frontier, — such high trust 
Is young Duke Silva's ; and the time is great. 
(What times are little ? To the sentinel 
That hour is regal when he mounts on guard.) 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 23 

The fifteentli century since the Man Divine 

Taught and was hated in Capernaum 

Is near its end, — is falling as a husk 

Away from all the fruit its years have ripened. 

The Moslem faith, now flickering like a torch 

In a night struggle on this shore of Spain, 

Glares, a broad column of advancing flame, 

Along the Danube and the Illyrian shore 

Far into Italy, where eager monks, 

Who watch in dreams and dream the while they watch, 

See Christ grow paler in the baleful light. 

Crying again the cry of the forsaken. 

But faith, the stronger for extremity. 

Becomes prophetic, hears the far-off' tread 

Of western chivalry, sees downward sweep 

The archangel Michael with the gleaming sword. 

And listens for the shriek of hurrying fiends 

Chased from their revels in God's sanctuary. 

So trusts the monk, and lifts appealing eyes 

To the high dome, the Church's firmament, 

Where the blue light-pierced curtain, rolled away, 

Reveals the throne and Him who sits thereon. 

So trust the men whose best hope for the world 

Is ever that the world is near its end : 

Impatient of the stars that keep their course 

And make no pathway for the coming Judge. 

But other futures stir the world's great heart. 

The West now enters on the heritage 

Won from the tombs of mighty ancestors, 

The seeds, the gold, the gems, the silent harps 

That lay deep buried with the memories 

Of old renown. 

No more, as once in sunny Avignon, 

The poet-scholar spreads the Homeric page, 



24 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

And gazes sadly, like the deaf at song ; 

For now the old epic voices ring again 

And vibrate with the heat and melody 

Stirred by the warmth of old Ionian days. 

The martyred sage, the Attic orator. 

Immortally incarnate, like the gods, 

In spiritual bodies, winged words 

Holding a universe impalpable. 

Find a new audience. Forevermore, 

With grander resurrection than was feigned 

Of Attila's fierce Huns, the soul of Greece 

Conquers the bulk of Persia. The maimed form 

Of calmly joyous beauty, marble-limbed. 

Yet breathing with the thought that shaped its lips, 

Looks mild reproach from out its opened grave 

At creeds of terror ; and the vine-wreathed god 

Rising, a stifled question from the silence. 

Fronts the pierced Image with the crown of thorns. 

The soul of man is widening towards the past : 

No longer hanging at the breast of life 

Feeding in blindness to his parentage, — 

Quenching all wonder with Omnipotence, 

Praising a name with indolent piety, — 

He spells the record of his long descent, 

More largely conscious of the life that was. 

And from the height that shows where morning shone 

On far-off summits pale and gloomy now, 

The horizon widens round him, and the west 

Looks vast with untracked waves whereon his gaze 

Follows the flight of the swift-vanished bird 

That like the sunken sun is mirrored still 

Upon the yearning soul within the eye. 

And so in Cordova through patient nights 

Columbus watches, or he sails in dreams 

IBetween the setting stars and finds new day ; 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 25 

Then wakes again to the old weary days, 

Girds on the cord and frock of pale Saint Francis, 

And like him zealous pleads with foolish men. 

" I ask but for a million maravedis : 

Give me three caravels to find a world, 

New shores, new realms, new soldiers for the Cross. 

Son cosas grandes ! " Thus he pleads in vain ; 

Yet faints not utterly, but pleads anew, 

Thinking, " God means it, and has chosen me." 

For this man is the pulse of all mankind 

Feeding an embryo future, offspring strange 

Of the fond Present, that Avith mother-prayers 

And mother-fancies looks for championship 

Of all her loved beliefs and old-world ways 

From that young Time she bears within her womb. 

The sacred places shall be purged again. 

The Turk converted, and the Holy Church, 

Like the mild Virgin with the outspread robe, 

Shall fold all tongues and nations lovingly. 

But since God works by armies, who shall be 

The modern Cyrus ? Is it France most Christian, 

Who with his lilies and brocaded knights, 

French oaths, French vices, and the newest style 

Of out-puffed sleeve, shall pass from west to east, 

A winnowing fan to purify the seed 

For fair millennial harvests soon to come ? 

Or is not Spain the land of chosen warriors ? — 

Crusaders consecrated from the womb. 

Carrying the sword-cross stamped upon their souls 

By the long yearnings of a nation's life. 

Through all the seven patient centuries 

Since first Pelayo and his resolute band 

Trusted the God within their Gothic hearts 

At Covadunga, and defied Mahound ; 



26 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Beginning so the Holy War of Spain 

That now is panting with tlie eagerness 

Of labor near its end. The silver cross 

Glitters o'er Malaga and streams dread light 

On Moslem galleys, turning all their stores 

From threats to gifts. What Spanish knight is he 

Who, living now, holds it not shame to live 

Apart from that hereditary battle 

Which needs his sword ? Castilian gentlemen 

Choose not their task, — they choose to do it well. 

The time is great, and greater no man's trust 
Than his who keeps the fortress for his king, 
Wearing great honors as some delicate robe 
Brocaded o'er with names 't were sin to tarnish. 
Born de la Cerda, Calatravan knight, 
Count of Segura, fourth Duke of Bedmar, 
Offshoot from that high stock of old Castile 
Whose topmost branch is proud Medina Celi, — 
Such titles with their blazonry are his 
Who keeps this fortress, sworn Alcayde, 
Lord of the valley, master of the town, 
Commanding whom he will, himself commanded 
By Christ his Lord who sees him from the Cross 
And from bright heaven where the Mother pleads ; 
By good Saint James upon the milk-white steed, 
Who leaves his bliss to fight for chosen Spain ; — 
By the dead gaze of all his ancestors ; — 
And by the mystery of his Spanish blood 
Charged with the awe and glories of the past. 
See now with soldiers in his front and rear 
He winds at evening through the narrow streets 
That toward the Castle gate climb devious : 
His charger, of fine Andalusian stock, 
An Indian beauty, black but delicate, 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 27 

Is conscious of the herald trumpet note, 

The gathering glances, and familiar ways 

That lead fast homeward : she forgets fatigue. 

And at the light touch of the master's spur 

Thrills with the zeal to bear him royally. 

Arches her neck and clambers up the stones 

As if disdainful of the difficult steep. 

Night-black the charger, black the rider's plume, 

But all between is bright with morning hues, — 

Seems ivory and gold and deep blue gems. 

And starry flashing steel and pale vermilion. 

All set in jasper : on his surcoat white 

Glitter the swordbelt and the jewelled hilt, 

Eed on the back and breast the holy cross, 

And 'twixt the helmet and the soft-spun white 

Thick tawny wavelets like the lion's mane 

Turn backward from his brow, pale, wide, erect, 

Shadowing blue eyes, — blue as the rain-washed sky 

That braced the early stem of Gothic kings 

He claims for ancestry. A goodly knight, 

A noble caballero, broad of chest 

And long of limb. So much the August sun, 

Now in the west but shooting half its beams 

Past a dark rocky profile toward the plain. 

At winding opportunities across the slope 

Makes suddenly luminous for all who see : 

For women smiling from the terraced roofs ; 

For boys that prone on trucks with head up-propped. 

Lazy and curious, stare irreverent ; 

For men who make obeisance with degrees 

Of good-will shading towards servility, 

Where good-will ends and secret fear begins. 

And curses, too, low-muttered through the teetJi, 

Explanatory to the God of Shem. 



28 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Five, grouped within a whitened tavern court 
Of Moorish fashion, where the trellised vines 
Purpling above their heads make odorous shade, 
Note through the open door the passers-by, 
Getting some rills of novelty to speed 
The lagging stream of talk and help the wine. 
'T is Christian to drink wine : whoso denies 
His flesh at bidding save of Holy Church, 
Let him beware and take to Christian sins 
Lest he be taxed with Moslem sanctity. 

The souls are five, the talkers only three. 

(No time, most tainted by wrong faith and rule, 

But holds some listeners and dumb animals.) 

Mine Host is one : he with the well-arched nose. 

Soft-eyed, fat-handed, loving men for naught 

But his own humor, patting old and young 

Upon the back, and mentioning the cost 

With confidential blandness, as a tax 

That he collected much against his will 

From Spaniards who were all his bosom friends : 

Warranted Christian, — else how keep an inn. 

Which calling asks true faith ? though like his wine 

Of cheaper sort, a trifle over-new. 

His father was a convert, chose the chrism 

As men choose physic, kept his chimney warm 

With smokiest wood upon a Saturday, 

Counted his gains and grudges on a chaplet. 

And crossed himself asleep for fear of spies ; 

Trusting the God of Israel would see 

'T was Christian tyranny that made him base. 

Our host his son was born ten years too soon, 

Had heard his mother call him Ephraim, 

Knew holy things from common, thought it sin 

To feast on days when Israel's children mourned, 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 29 

So had to be converted with his sire, 

To doff the awe he learned as Ephraim, 

And suit his manners to a Christian name. 

But infant awe, that unborn breathing thing, 

Dies with what nourished it, can never rise 

From the dead womb and walk and seek new pasture. 

Baptism seemed to him a merry game 

Not tried before, all sacraments a mode ^ 

Of doing homage for one's property, 

And all religions a queer human whim 

Or else a vice, according to degrees : 

As, 't is a whim to like your chestnuts hot. 

Burn your own mouth and draw your face awry, 

A vice to pelt frogs with them, — animals 

Content to take life coolly. And Lorenzo 

Would have all lives made easy, even lives 

Of spiders and inquisitors, yet still 

Wishing so well to flies and Moors and Jews, 

He rather wished the others easy death ; 

For loving all men clearly was deferred 

Till all men loved each other. Such mine Host, 

With chiselled smile caressing Seneca, 

The solemn mastiff leaning on his knee. 

His right-hand guest is solemn as the dog, 
Square-faced and massive : Blasco is his name, 
A prosperous silversmith from Aragon ; 
In speech not silvery, rather tuned as notes 
From a deep vessel made of plenteous iron, 
Or some great bell of slow but certain swing 
That, if you only wait, will tell the hour 
As well as flippant clocks that strike in haste 
And set off chiming a superfluous tune, — 
Like Juan there, the spare man with the lute, 
Who makes you dizzy with his rapid tongue, 



30 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Whirring athwart your mind with comment swift 

On speech you would have finished by and by, 

Shooting your bird for you while you are loading, 

Cheapening your wisdom as a pattern known, 

Woven by any shuttle on demand. 

Can never sit quite still, too : sees a wasp 

And kills it with a movement like a flash ; 

Whistles low notes or seems to thrum his lute 

As a mere hyphen 'twixt two syllables 

Of any steadier man ; walks up and down 

And snuffs the orange flowers and shoots a pea 

To hit a streak of light let through the awning. 

Has a queer face : eyes large as plums, a nose 

Small, round, uneven, like a bit of wax 

Melted and cooled by chance. Thin-fingered, lithe, 

And as a squirrel noiseless, startling men 

Only by quickness. In his speech and look 

A touch of graceful wildness, as of things 

Not trained or tamed for uses of the world ; 

Most like the Fauns that roamed in days of old 

About the listening whispering woods, and shared 

The subtler sense of sylvan ears and eyes 

Undulled by scheming thought, yet joined the rout 

Of men and women on the festal days, 

And played the syrinx too, and knew love's pains, 

Turning their anguish into melody. 

For Juan was a minstrel still, in times 

When minstrelsy was held a thing outworn. 

Spirits seem buried and their epitaph 

Is writ in Latin by severest pens, 

Yet still they flit above the trodden grave 

And flnd new bodies, animating them 

In quaint and ghostly way with antique souls. 

So Juan was a troubadour revived, 

Freshening life's dusty road with babbling rills 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 31 

Of wit and song, living 'mid harnessed men 

With limbs ungalled by armor, ready so 

To soothe them weary, and to cheer them sad. 

Guest at the board, companion in the camp, 

A crystal mirror to the life around. 

Flashing the comment keen of simple fact 

Defined in words ; lending brief lyric voice 

To grief and sadness ; hardly taking note 

Of difference betwixt his own and others' ; 

But rather singing as a listener 

To the deep moans, the cries, the wild strong joys 

Of universal Kature, old yet young. 

Such Juan, the third talker, shimmering bright 

As butterfly or bird with quickest life. 

The silent Roldan has his brightness too, 

But only in his spangles and rosettes. 

His party-colored vest and crimson hose 

Are dulled with old Valencian dust, his eyes 

With straining fifty years at gilded balls 

To catch them dancing, or with brazen looks 

At men and women as he made his jests 

Some thousand times and watched to count the Dence 

His wife was gathering. His olive face 

Has an old writing in it, characters 

Stamped deep by grins that had no merriment, 

The soul's rude mark proclaiming all its blank ; 

As on some faces that have long grown old 

In lifting tapers up to forms obscene 

On ancient walls and chuckling with false zest 

To please my lord, who gives the larger fee 

For that hard industry in apishness. 

Roldan would gladly never laugh again ; 

Pensioned, he would be grave as any ox. 

And having beans and crumbs and oil secured 



32 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Would borrow no man's jokes forevermore. 
'T is harder now because his wife is gone, 
AVho had quick feet, and danced to ravishment 
Of every ring jewelled with Spanish eyes, 
But died and left this boy, lame from his birth, 
And sad and obstinate, though when he will 
He sings God-taught such marrow-thrilling strains 
As seem the very voice of dying Spring, 
A flute-like wail that mourns the blossoms gone, 
And sinks, and is not, like their fragrant breath, 
With fine transition on the trembling air. 
He sits as if imprisoned by some fear. 
Motionless, with wide eyes that seem not made 
For hungry glancing of a twelve-yeared boy 
To mark the living thing that he could tease, 
But for the gaze of some primeval sadness 
Dark twin with light in the creative ray. 
This little Pablo has his spangles too. 
And large rosettes to hide his poor left foot 
Rounded like any hoof (his mother thought 
God willed it so to punish all her sins). 

I said the souls were five, — besides the dog. 

But there was still a sixth, with wrinkled face. 

Grave and disgusted with all merriment 

Not less than Roldan. It is Annibal, 

The experienced monkey who performs the tricks, 

Jumps through the hoops, and carries round the hat. 

Once full of sallies and impromptu feats. 

Now cautious not to light on aught that 's new, 

Lest he be whipped to do it o'er again 

From A to Z, and make the gentry laugh : 

A misanthropic monkey, gray and grim. 

Bearing a lot that has no remedy 

For want of concert in the monkey tribe. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 33 

We see the company, above their heads 
The braided matting, golden as ripe corn, 
Stretched in a curving strip close by the grapes, 
Elsewhere rolled back to greet the cooler sky ; 
A fountain near, vase-shapen and broad-lipped, 
"^ATiere timorous birds alight with tiny feet, 
And hesitate and bend wise listening ears. 
And fly away again with undipped beak. 
On the stone floor the juggler's heaped-up goods, 
Carpet and hoops, viol and tambourine. 
Where Annibal sits perched with brows severe, 
A serious ape whom none take seriously. 
Obliged in this fool's world to earn his nuts 
By hard buffoonery. We see them all. 
And hear their talk, — the talk of Spanish men, 
With Southern intonation, vowels turned 
Caressingly between the consonants. 
Persuasive, willing, with such intervals 
As music borrows from the wooing birds. 
That plead with subtly curving, sweet descent, — 
And yet can quarrel, as these Spaniards can. 

Juan (near the doorway). 

You hear the trumpet ? There 's old Ramon's blast. 

No bray but his can shake the air so well. 

He takes his trumpeting as solemnly 

As angel charged to wake the dead ; thinks war 

Was made for trumpeters, and their great art 

Made solely for themselves who imderstand it. 

His features all have shaped themselves to blowing, 

And when his trumpet 's bagged or left at home 

He seems a chattel in a broker's booth, 

A spoutless watering-can, a promise to pay 

No sum particular. fine old Ramon ! 

The blasts get louder and the clattering hoofs ; 



34 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

They crack the ear as well as heaven's thunder 
For owls that listen blinking. There 's the banner. 

Host (^joining him: the others follow to the door). 
The Duke has finished reconnoitring, then ? 
We shall hear news. They say he means a sally, — 
Would strike El Zagal's Moors as they push home 
Like ants with booty heavier than themselves ; 
Then, joined by other nobles with their bands. 
Lay siege to Guadix. Juan, you 're a bird 
That nest within the Castle. What say you ? 

Juan. 

Naught, I say naught. 'T is but a toilsome game 

To bet upon that feather Policy, 

And guess where after twice a hundred puffs 

'T will catch another feather crossing it : 

Guess how the Pope will blow and how the king ; 

What force my lady's fan has ; how a cough 

Seizing the Padre's throat may raise a gust, 

And how the queen may sigh the feather down. 

Such catching at imaginary threads. 

Such spinning twisted air, is not for me. 

If I should want a game, I '11 rather bet 

On racing snails, two large, slow, lingering snails, — 

No spurring, equal weights, — a chance sublime, 

Nothing to guess at, pure uncertainty. 

Here comes the Duke. They give but feeble shouts. 

And some look sour. 

Host. 

That spoils a fair occasion. 
Civility brings no conclusions with it, 
And cheerful Vivas make the moments glide 
Instead of grating like a rusty wheel. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 35 

Juan. 

they are dullards, kick because they 're stung, 
And bruise a friend to show they hate a wasp. 

Host. 
Best treat your wasp with delicate regard ; 
When the right moment comes say, " By your leave," 
Use your heel — so ! and make an end of him. 
That 's if we talked of wasps ; but our young Duke, — 
Spain holds not a miore gallant gentleman. 
Live, live, Duke Silva ! 'T is a rare smile he has, 
But seldom seen, 

Juan. 
A true hidalgo's smile. 
That gives mi;ch favor, but beseeches none. 
His smile is sweetened by his gravity : 
It comes like dawn upon Sierra snows, 
Seeming more generous for the coldness gone ; 
Breaks from the calm, — a sudden opening flower 
On dark deep waters : one moment shrouded close, 
A mystic shrine, the next a full-rayed star. 
Thrilling, pulse-quickening as a living word. 

1 '11 make a song of that. 

Host. 

Prithee, not now. 
You '11 fall to staring like a Avooden saint, 
And wag your head as it were set on wires. 
Here 's fresh sherbet. Sit, be good company. 
(To Blasco.) You are a stranger, sir, and cannot know 
How our Duke's nature suits his princely frame. 

Blasco. 
Nay, but I marked his spurs, — chased cunningly ! 
A duke should know good gold and silver plate ; 



36 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Then he will know the quality of mine. 

I Ve ware for tables and for altars too, 

Our Lady in all sizes, crosses, bells : 

He '11 need such weapons full as much as swords 

If he would capture any Moorish town. 

For, let me tell you, when a mosque is cleansed .... 

Juan. 

The demons fly so thick from sound of bells 

And smell of incense, you may see the air 

Streaked with them as with smoke. Why, they are 

spirits : 
You may well think how crowded they must be 
To make a sort of haze. 

Blasco. 

I knew not that. 
Still, they 're of smoky nature, demons are ; 
And since you say so, — well, it proves the more 
The need of bells and censers. Ay, your Duke 
Sat well : a triie hidalgo. I can judge, — 
Of harness specially. I saw the camp, 
The royal camp at Velez Malaga. 
'T was like the court of heaven, — such liveries ! 
And torches carried by the score at night 
Before the nobles. Sirs, I made a dish 
To set an emerald in would fit a crown. 
For Don Alonzo, lord of Aguilar. 
Your Duke 's no whit behind him in his mien 
Or harness either. But you seem to say 
The people love him not. 

Host. 

They 've naught against him. 
But certain winds will make men's temper bad. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 87 

When the Solano blows hot venomed breath, 
It acts upon men's knives : steel takes to stabbing 
Which else, with cooler winds, were honest steel, 
Cutting but garlick. There 's a wind just now 
Blows right from Seville — 

Blasco. 

Ay, you mean the wind .... 
Yes, yes, a wind that 's rather hot .... 

Host. 

With fagots. 
Juan. 
A wind that suits not with our townsmen's blood. 
Abram, 't is said, objected to be scorched, 
And, as the learned Arabs vouch, he gave 
The antipathy in full to Ishmael. 
'T is true, these patriarchs had their oddities. 

Blasco. 
Their oddities ? I 'm of their mind, I know. 
Though, as to Abraham and Ishmael, 
I 'm an old Christian, and owe naught to them 
Or any Jew among them. Biit I know 
We made a stir in Saragossa — we : 
The men of Aragon ring hard, — true metal. 
Sirs, I 'm no friend to heresy, but then 
A Christian's money is not safe. As how ? 
A lapsing Jew or any heretic 
May owe me twenty ounces : suddenly 
He 's prisoned, suffers penalties, — 't is well : 
If men will not believe, 't is good to make them, 
But let the penalties fall on them alone. 
The Jew is stripped, his goods are confiscate ; 
Now, where, I pray you, go my twenty ounces ? 



38 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

God knows, and perhaps the King may, but not I 
And more, my son may lose his young wife's dower 
Because 't was promised since her father's soul 
Fell to wrong thinking. How was I to know ? 
I could but use my sense and cross myself. 
Christian is Christian, — I give in, — but still 
Taxing is taxing, though you call it holy. 
We Saragossans liked not this new tax 
They call the — nonsense, I 'm from Aragon ! 
I speak too bluntly. But, for Holy Church, 
No man believes more. 

Host. 

Nay, sir, never fear. 
Good Master Eoldan here is no delator. 

EoLDAN {starting from a reverie). 
You speak to me, sirs ? I perform to-night — 
The Pla9a Santiago. Twenty tricks. 
All different. I dance, too. And the boy 
Sings like a bird. I crave your patronage. 

Blasco. 
Faith, you shall have it, sir. In travelling 
I take a little freedom, and am gay. 
You marked not what I said just now ? 

KOLDAN. 

I? no. 
I pray yo^^^ pardon. I 've a twinging knee. 
That makes it hard to listen. You were saying ? 

Blasco. 

Nay, it was naught. {Aside to Host.) Is it his deepness ? 

Host. 

No. 
He 's deep in nothing but his poverty. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 39 

Blasco. 
But 't was his poverty that made me think .... 

Host. 

His piety might wish to keep the feasts 
As well as fasts. No fear ; he hears not. 

Blasco. 

Good. 
I speak my mind about the penalties, 
But, look you, I 'm against assassination. 
You know my meaning — Master Arbues, 
The grand Inquisitor in Aragon. 
I knew naught, — paid no copper towards the deed. 
But I was there, at prayers, within the church. 
How could I help it ? ^Vliy, the saints were there, 
And looked straight on above the altars. I . . . . 

Juan. 
Looked carefully another way. 

Blasco. 

Why, at my beads. 
'T was after midnight, and the canons all 
Were chanting matins. I was not in church 
To gape and stare. I saw the martyr kneel : 
I never liked the look of him alive, — 
He was no martyr then. I thought he made 
An ugly shadow as he crept athwart 
The bands of light, then passed within the gloom 
By the broad pillar. 'T was in our great Seo, 
At Saragossa. The pillars tower so large 
You cross yourself to see them, lest white Death 
Should hide behind their dark. And so it was. 



40 POEMS OF GEOEGE ELIOT. 

I looked away again and told my beads 

Unthinkingly ; but still a man has ears ; 

And right across the chanting came a sound 

As if a tree had crashed above the roar 

Of some great torrent. So it seemed to me ; 

For when you listen long and shut your eyes 

Small sounds get thunderous. And he 'd a shell 

Like any lobster : a good iron suit 

From top to toe beneath the innocent serge. 

That made the telltale sound. But then came shrieks. 

The chanting stopped and turned to rushing feet, 

And in the midst lay Master Arbues, 

Felled like an ox. 'T was wicked butchery. 

Some honest men had hoped it would have scared 

The Inquisition out of Aragon. 

'T was money thrown away, — I would say, crime, — 

Clean thrown away. 

Host. 

That was a pity now. 
Next to a missing thrust, what irks me most 
Is a neat well-aimed stroke that kills your man, 
Yet ends in mischief, — as in Aragon. 
It was a lesson to our people here. 
Else there 's a monk within our city walls, 
A holy, high-born, stern Dominican, 
They might have made the great mistake to kill. 

Blasco. 
What ! is he ? 

Host. 

Yes ; a Master Arbues 
Of finer quality. The Prior here 
And uncle to our Duke. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 41 

Blasco. 

He will want plate : 
A holy pillar or a crucifix. 
But, did you say, he was like Arbues ? 

Juan. 

As a black eagle with gold beak and claws 

Is like a raven. Even in his cowl, 

Covered from head to foot, the Prior is known 

From all the black herd round. When he uncovers 

And stands white-frocked, with ivory face, his eyes 

Black-gleaming, black his coronet of hair 

Like shredded jasper, he seems less a man 

With struggling aims than pure incarnate Will, 

Fit to subdue rebellious nations, nay, 

That human flesh he breathes in, charged with passion 

Which quivers in his nostril and his lip, 

But disciplined by long-indwelling will 

To silent labor in the yoke of law. 

A truce to thy comparisons, Lorenzo ! 

Thine is no subtle nose for difference ; 

'T is dulled by feigning and civility. 

Host. 

Pooh, thou 'rt a poet, crazed with finding words 

May stick to things and seem like qualities. 

No pebble is a pebble in thy hands : 

'T is a moon out of work, a barren egg, 

Or twenty things that no man sees but thee. 

Our father Isidor 's — a living saint. 

And that is heresy, some townsmen think : 

Saints should be dead, according to the Church. 

My mind is this : the Father is so holy 

'T were sin to wish his soul detained from bliss. 

Easy translation to the realms above. 



42 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

The shortest journey to the seventh heaven, 
Is what I 'd never grudge him. 

Blasco. 

Piously said. 
Look you, I 'm dutiful, obey the Church 
When there 's no help for it : I mean to say, 
When Pope and Bishop and all customers 
Order alike. But there be bishops now, 
And were aforetime, who have held it wrong, 
This hurry to convert the Jews. As, how ? 
Your Jew pays tribute to the bishop, say. 
That 's good, and must please God, to see the Church 
Maintained in ways that ease the Christian's purse. 
Convert the Jew, and where 's the tribute, pray ? 
He lapses, too : "t is slippery work, conversion : 
And then the holy taxing carries off 
His money at one sweep. No tribute more ! 
He 's penitent or burnt, and there 's an end. 
Now guess which pleases God .... 

Juan. 

Whether he likes 
A well-burnt Jew or well-fed bishop best. 

[While Juan put this problem theologic 
Entered, with resonant step, another guest, — 
A soldier : all his keenness in his sword. 
His eloquence in scars upon his cheek. 
His virtue in much slaying of the Moor : 
With brow well-creased in horizontal folds 
To save the space, as having naught to do : 
Lips prone to whistle whisperingly, — no tune, 
But trotting rhythm : meditative eyes. 
Most often fixed upon his legs and spurs : 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 43 



Invited much, and held good company : 
Styled Captain Lopez.] 

Lopez. 

At your service, sirs. 

Juan. 

Ha, Lopez ? Why, thou hast a face full-charged 
As any herald's. What news of the wars ? 

Lopez. 
Such news as is most bitter on my tongue. 

Juan. 
Then spit it forth. 

Host. 

Sit, Captain : here 's a cup, 
Fresh-filled. What news ? 

Lopez. 

'T is bad. We make no sally ; 
We sit still here and wait whate'er the Moor 
Shall please to do. 

Host. 
Some townsmen will be glad. 

Lopez. 

Glad, will they be ? But I 'm not glad, not I, 
Nor any Spanish soldier of clean blood. 
But the Duke's wisdom is to wait a siege 
Instead of laying one. Therefore — meantime — 
He will be married straightway. 



44 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Host. 

Ha, ha, ha ! 
Thy speech is like an hourglass ; turn it down 
The other way, 't will stand as well, and say 
The Duke will wed, therefore he waits a siege. 
But what say Don Diego and the Prior ? 
The holy uncle and the fiery Don ? 

Lopez. 
Oh there be sayings running all abroad 
As thick as nuts o'erturned. No man need lack. 
Some say, 't was letters changed the Duke's intent : 
From Malaga, says Bias. From Rome, says Quintin. 
From spies at Guadix, says Sebastian. 
Some say, 't is all a pretext, — say, the Duke 
Is but a lapdog hanging on a skirt, 
Turning his eyeballs upward like a monk : 
'T was Don Diego said that, — so says Bias ; 
Last week, he said .... 

Oh do without the '' said " ! 
Open thy mouth and pause in lieu of it. 
I had as lief be pelted with a pea 
Irregularly in the selfsame spot 
As hear such iteration without rule, 
Such torture of uncertain certainty. 

Lopez. 
Santiago ! Juan, thou art hard to please. 
I speak not for my own delighting, I. 
I can be silent, I. 

Blasco. 
Nay, sir, speak on ! 
I like your matter well. I deal in plate. 
This wedding touches me. Who is the bride ? 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 45 

Lopez. 
One that some say the Duke does ill to wed. 
One that his mother reared — God rest her soul ! — 
Duchess Diana, — she who died last year. 
A bird picked up away from any nest. 
Her name — the Duchess gave it — is Fedalma. 
No harm in that. But the Duke stoops, they say, 
In wedding her. And that 's the simple truth. 

Juan. 

Thy simple truth is but a false opinion : 
The simple truth of asses who believe 
Their thistle is the very best of food. 
Fie, Lopez, thou a Spaniard with a sword 
Dreamest a Spanish noble ever stoops 
By doing honor to the maid he loves ! 
He stoops alone when he dishonors her. 

Lopez. 
Nay, I said naught against her. 

Juan. 

Better not. 
Else I would challenge thee to fight with wits. 
And spear thee through and through ere thou couldst 

draw 
The bluntest word. Yes, yes, consult thy spurs : 
Spurs are a sign of knighthood, and should tell thee 
That knightly love is blent with reverence 
As heavenly air is blent with heavenly blue. 
Don Silva's heart beats to a chivalric tune : 
He wills no highest-born Castilian dame. 
Betrothed to highest noble, should be held 
More sacred than Fedalma. He enshrines 



46 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Her virgin image for the general worship 

And for his own, — will guard her from the world, 

Nay, his _ prof aner self, lest he should lose 

The place of his religion. He does well. 

Naught can come closer to the poets' strain. 

Host. 

Or further from their practice, Juan, eh ? 
If thou 'rt a specimen ? 

Juan. 

Wrong, my Lorenzo ! 
Touching Fedalma the poor poet plays 
A finer part even than the noble Duke. 

Lopez. 

By making ditties, singing with round mouth 
Likest a crowing cock ? Thou meanest that ? 



Juan. 
Lopez, take physic, thou art getting ill, 
Growing descriptive ; 't is unnatural. 
I mean, Don Silva's love expects reward. 
Kneels with a heaven to come ; but the poor poet 
Worships without reward, nor hopes to find 
A heaven save in his worship. He adores 
The sweetest woman for her sweetness' sake, 
Joys in the love that was not born for him, 
Because 't is lovingness, as beggars joy. 
Warming their naked limbs on wayside walls, 
To hear a tale of princes and their glory. 
There 's a poor poet (poor, I mean, in coin) 
Worships Fedalma with so true a love 
That if her silken robe were changed for rags, 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 47 

And she were driven out to stony wilds 
Barefoot, a scorned wanderer, he would kiss 
Her ragged garment's edge, and only ask 
For leave to be her slave. Digest that, friend, 
Or let it lie upon thee as a weight 
To check light thinking of Fedalma. 

Lopez. 

I? 

I think no harm of her ; I thank the saints 
I wear a sword and peddle not in thinking. 
'T is Father Marcos says she '11 not confess 
And loves not holy water ; says her blood 
Is infidel ; says the Duke's wedding her 
Is union of light with darkness. 

JuAJf. 

Tush! 

[Now Juan — Avho by snatches touched his lute 

With soft arpeggio, like a whispered dream 

Of sleeping music, while he spoke of love, — 

In jesting anger at the soldier's talk 

Thrummed loud and fast, then faster and more loud, 

Till, as he answered, " Tush ! " he struck a chord 

Sudden as whip-crack close by Lopez' ear. 

Mine host and Blasco smiled, the mastiif barked, 

Roldan looked up and Annibal looked down, 

Cautiously neutral in so new a case ; 

The boy raised longing, listening eyes that seemed 

An exiled spirit's waiting in strained hope 

Of voices coming from the distant land. 

But Lopez bore the assault like any rock : 

That was not what he drew his sword at — he ! 

He spoke with neck erect.] 



48 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Lopez, 

If that 's a hint 
The company should ask thee for a song, 
Sing, then ! 

Host. 

Ay, Juan, sing, and jar no more. 
Something brand new. Thou 'rt wont to make my ear 
A test of novelties. Hast thou aught fresh ? 

Juan. 

As fresh as rain-drops. Here 's a Cancion 
Springs like a tiny mushroom delicate 
Out of the priest's foul scandal of Fedalma. 

[He preluded with questioning intervals, 
Eising, then falling just a semitone, 
In minor cadence, — sound with poised wing 
Hovering and quivering towards the needed fall. 
Then in a voice that shook the willing air 
With masculine vibration sang this song. 

Should I long that dark were fair ? 

Say, song ! 

Lacks my love aught, that I should long ? 

Dark the night, with breath all flow'' rs^ 
And tender broken voice that fills 

With ravishment the listening hours : 

Whisperings, tvooings, 
Liquid ripples and soft ring-dove cooings 
In low-toned rhythm that love's aching stills. 
Dark the night. 

Yet is she bright. 

For in her dark she brings the mystic star, 

Trembling yet strong, as is the voice of love, 
From some unknown afar. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 49 

radiant Dark ! darkly fostered ray ! 
Thou hast a joy too deep for shallow Day. 

While Juan sang, all round the tavern court 

Gathered a constellation of black eyes. 

Fat Lola leaned upon the balcony 

With arms that might have pillowed Hercules 

(Who built, 't is knoAvn, the mightiest Spanish towns) ; 

Thin Akla's face, sad as a wasted passion, 

Leaned o'er the nodding baby's ; 'twixt the rails 

The little Pepe showed his two black beads. 

His flat-ringed hair and small Semitic nose 

Complete and tiny as a new-born minnow ; 

Patting his head and holding in her arms 

The baby senior, stood Lorenzo's Avife 

All negligent, her kerchief discomposed 

By little clutches, woman's coquetry 

Quite turned to mother's cares and sweet content. 

These on the balcony, while at the door 

Gazed the lank boys and lazy-shouldered men. 

'T is likely too the rats and insects peeped. 

Being southern Spanish ready for a lounge. 

The singer smiled, as doubtless Orpheus smiled. 

To see the animals both great and small, 

The mountainous elephant and scampering mouse. 

Held by the ears in decent audience ; 

Then, when mine host desired the strain once more, 

He fell to preluding with rhythmic change 

Of notes recurrent, soft as pattering drops 

That fall from off the eaves in faery dance 

When clouds are breaking ; till at measured pause 

He struck, in rare responsive chords, a refrain.] 

Host. 

Come, then, a gayer romaunt, if thou wilt : 

I quarrel not with change. What say you, Captain ? 



50 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Lopez. 

All 's one to me. I note no change of tune, 
Not I, save in the ring of horses' hoofs, 
Or in the drums and trumpets when they call 
To action or retreat. I ne'er could see 
The good of singing. 

Blasco. 

Why, it passes time, — 
Saves you from getting over-wise : that 's good. 
For, look you, fools are merry here below. 
Yet they will go to heaven all the same, 
Having the sacraments ; and, look you, heaven 
Is a long holiday, and solid men. 
Used to much business, might be ill at ease 
Not liking play. And so in travelling 
I shape myself betimes to idleness 
And take fools' pleasures .... 

Host. 

Hark, the song begins ! 

Juan (sings). 

Maiden, crowned with glossy blackness, 

Lithe as panther forest-roaming, 
Long-arvfied naiad, when she dances, 

On a stream of ether floating, — 
Bright, bright Fedalma ! 

Form all curves like softness drifted. 
Wave-kissed marble roundly dimpling, 

Far-off music sloivly tvinged. 

Gently rising, gently sinking, — 
Bright, bright Fedalma ! 



THE SPi\NISH GYPSY. 51 

Fure as rai7i-tear on a rose-leaf, 

Cloud high-bom in noonday spotless, 

Sudden -perfect as the deiv-head. 
Gem of earth and sky begotten, — 
Bnght, bright Fedalma ! 

Beantij lias no mortal father, 

Holg light her form engendered 
Out of tremor, yearning, gladness, 

Presage stveet and joy remembered, — 
Child of Light, Fedalma ! 

Blasco. 

Faith, a good song, sung to a stirring tune. 
I like the words returning in a round ; 
It gives a sort of sense. Another such ! 

EoLDAN (rising). 

Sirs, you will hear my boy. 'T is very hard 
When gentles sing for naught to all the town. 
How can a poor man live ? And now 't is time 
I go to the Pla9a, — who will give me pence 
When he can hear hidalgos and give naught ? 

Juan. 

True, friend. Be pacified. I '11 sing no more. 

Go thou, and we will follow. Never fear. 

My voice is common as the ivy leaves, 

Plucked in all seasons, — bears no price ; the boy's 

Is like the almond blossoms. Ah, he 's lame ! 

Host. 

Load him not heaAaly. Here, Pedro ! help. 
Go with them to the Plaga, take the hoops. 
The sights will -psbj thee. 



52 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Blasco. 

I '11 be there anon, 
And set the fashion with a good white coin. 
But let us see as well as hear. 

Host. 

Ay, prithee. 
Some tricks, a dance. 

Blasco. 

Yes, 't is more rational. 

EoLDAN {turning round tvith the Mmclle a7id monkey on 
his shoulders). 
You shall see all, sirs. There 's no man in Spain 
Knows his art better. I 've a twinging knee 
Oft hinders dancing, and the boy is lame. 
But no man's monkey has more tricks than mine. 

[At this high praise the gloomy Annibal, 

Mournful professor of high drollery, 

Seemed to look gloomier, and the little troop 

Went slowly out, escorted from the door 

By all the idlers. From the balcony 

Slowly subsided the black radiance 

Of agate eyes, and broke in chattering sounds, 

Coaxings and trampings, and the small hoarse squeak 

Of Pepe's reed. And our group talked again.] 

Host. 
I '11 get this juggler, if he quits him well, 
An audience here as choice as can be lured. 
For me, when a poor devil does his best, 
'T is my delight to soothe his soul with praise. 
What though the best be bad ? remains the good 
Of throwing food to a lean hungry dog. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 53 

I 'd give up the best jugglery in life 

To see a miserable juggler pleased. 

But that 's my humor. Crowds are malcontent, 

And cruel as the Holy .... Shall we go ? 

All of us now together ? 

Lopez. 

Well, not I. 
I may be there anon, but first I go 
To the lower prison. There is strict command 
That all our Gypsy prisoners shall to-night 
Be lodged within the fort. They 've forged enough 
Of balls and bullets, — used up all the metal. 
At morn to-morrow they must carry stones 
Up the south tower. 'T is a fine stalwart band. 
Fit for the hardest tasks. Some say, the queen 
Would have the Gypsies banished with the Jews. 
Some say, 't were better harness them for work. 
They 'd feed on any filth and save the Spaniard. 
Some say — but I must go. 'T will soon be time 
To head the escort. We shall meet again. 

Blasco. 
Go, sir, with God {exit Lopez). A very proper man, 
And soldierly. But, for this banishmxcnt 
Some men are hot on, it ill pleases me. 
The Jews, now (sirs, if any Christian here 
Had Jews for ancestors, I blame him not ; 
We cannot all be Goths of Aragon), — 
Jews are not fit for heaven, but on earth 
They are most useful. 'T is the same with mules. 
Horses, or oxen, or with any pig 
Except Saint Anthony's. They are useful here 
(The Jews, I mean) though they may go to hell. 
And, look you, useful sins, — why Providence 



54 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Sends Jews to do 'em, saving Christian souls. 

The very Gypsies, curbed and harnessed well, 

"Would make draught cattle, feed on vermin too. 

Cost less than grazing brutes, and turn bad food 

To handsome carcasses ; sweat at the forge 

For little wages, and well drilled and flogged 

Might work like slaves, some Spaniards looking on. 

I deal in plate, and am no priest to say 

What God may mean, save when he means plain sense ; 

But when he sent the Gypsies wandering 

In punishment because they sheltered not 

Our Lady and Saint Joseph (and no doubt 

Stole the small ass they fled with into Egypt), 

Why send them here ? 'T is plain he saw the use 

They 'd be to Spaniards. Shall we banish them, 

And tell God we know better ? 'T is a sin. 

They talk of vermin ; but, sirs, vermin large 

Were made to eat the small, or else to eat 

The noxious rubbish, and picked Gypsy men 

Might serve in war to climb, be killed, and fall, 

To make an easy ladder. Once I saw 

A Gypsy sorcerer, at a spring and grasp, 

Kill one who came to seize him : talk of strength ! 

Nay, swiftness too, for while we crossed ourselves 

He vanished like, — say, like .... 

Juan. 

A swift black snake, 
Or like a living arrow fledged with will. 

Blasco. 
Why, did you see him, pray ? 

Juan. 

N"ot then, but now, 
As painters see the many in the one. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 55 

We have a Gypsy in Bedmar wliose frame 

Nature compacted with such fine selection, 

'T would yield a dozen types : all Spanish knights, 

From him who slew Rolando at the pass 

Up to the mighty Cid ; all deities, 

Thronging Olympus in fine attitudes ; 

Or all hell's heroes whom the poet saw 

Tremble like lions, writhe like demigods. 

Host. 

Pause not yet, Juan, — more hyperbole ! 
Shoot upward still and flare in meteors 
Before thou sink to earth in dull brown fact. 

Blasco. 

Nay, give me fact, high shooting suits not me. 
I never stare to look for soaring larks. 
AVliat is this Gypsy ? 

Host. 

Chieftain of a band. 
The Moor's allies, whom full a month ago 
Our Duke surprised and brought as captives home. 
He needed smiths, and doubtless the brave Moor 
Has missed some useful scouts and archers too. 
Juan's fantastic pleasure is to watch 
These Gypsies forging, and to hold discourse 
With this great chief, whom he transforms at will 
To sage or warrior, and like the sun 
Plays daily at fallacious alchemy, 
Turns sand to gold and dewy spider-webs 
To myriad rainbows. Still the sand is sand. 
And still in sober shade you see the web. 
'T is so, I '11 wager, with his Gypsy chief, — 
A piece of stalwart cunning, nothing more. 



56 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Juan. 

No ! My invention had been all too poor 

To frame this Zarca as I saw him first. 

'T was when they stripped him. In his chieftain's gear, 

Amidst his men he seemed a royal barb 

Followed by wild-maned Andalusian colts. 

He had a necklace of a strange device 

In finest gold of unknown workmanship, 

But delicate as Moorish, fit to kiss 

Fedalma's neck, and play in shadows there. 

He wore fine mail, a rich-wrought sword and belt, 

And on his surcoat black a broidered torch, 

A pine-branch flaming, grasped by two dark hands. 

But when they stripped him of his ornaments 

It was the bawbles lost their grace, not he. 

His eyes, his mouth, his nostril, all inspired 

With scorn that mastered utterance of scorn, 

With power to check all rage until it turned 

To ordered force, unleashed on chosen prey, — 

It seemed the soul within him made his limbs 

And made them grand. The bawbles were well gone. 

He stood the more a king, when bared to man. 

Blasco. 

Maybe. But nakedness is bad for trade, 
And is not decent. Well-wrought metal, sir, 
Is not a bawble. Had you seen the camp, 
The royal camp at Velez Malaga, 
Ponce de Leon and the other diikes, 
The king himself and all his thousand knights 
For body-guard, 't would not have left you breath 
To praise a Gypsy thus. A man 's a man ; 
But when you see a king, you see the work 
Of many thousand men. King Ferdinand 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 57 

Bears a fine presence, and hath proper limbs ; 
But what though he were shrunken as a relic ? 
You 'd see the gold and gems that cased him o'er, 
And all the pages round him in brocade, 
And all the lords, themselves a sort of kings, 
Doing him reverence. That strikes an awe 
Into a common man, — especially 
A judge of plate. 

Host. 

Faith, very wisely said. 
Purge thy speech, Juan. It is over-full 
Of this same Gypsy. Praise the Catholic King. 
And come now, let us see the juggler's skill. 



The Pla^a Santiago. 

'T is daylight still, but now the golden cross 
Uplifted by the angel on the dome 
Stands rayless in calm color clear-defined 
Against the northern blue ; from turrets high 
The flitting splendor sinks with folded wing 
Dark-hid till morning, and the battlements 
Wear soft relenting whiteness mellowed o'er 
By summers generous and winters bland. 
Now in the east the distance casts its veil. 
And gazes with a deepening earnestness. 
The old rain-fretted mountains in their robes 
Of shadow-broken gray ; the rounded hills 
Eeddened with blood of Titans, whose huge limbs, 
Entombed within, feed full the hardy flesh 
(^)f cactus green and blue, broad-sworded aloes ; 
The cypress soaring black above the lines 
Of white court-waUs ; the jointed sugar-canes 



58 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Pale-golden with their feathers motionless 

In the warm qniet ; — all thought-teaching form 

Utters itself in firm unshimmering hues. 

For the great rock has screened the westering sun 

That still on plains beyond streams vaporous gold 

Among the branches ; and within Bedmar 

Has come the time of sweet serenity 

When color glows unglittering, and the soul 

Of visible things shows silent happiness, 

As that of lovers trusting though apart. 

The ripe-cheeked fruits, the crimson-petalled flowers ; 

The winged life that j)ausiug seems a gem 

Cunningly carven on the dark green leaf ; 

The face of man with hues supremely blent 

To difference fine as of a voice 'mid sounds : — 

Each lovely light-dipped thing seems to emerge 

Flushed gravely from baptismal sacrament. 

All beauteous existence rests, yet wakes. 

Lies still, yet conscious, with clear open eyes 

And gentle breath and mild suffused joy. 

'T is day, but day that falls like melody 

Repeated on a string with graver tones, — 

Tones such as linger in a long farewell. 

The Pla9a widens in the passive air, — 

The Pla9a Santiago, where the church, 

A mosque converted, shows an eyeless face 

Red-checkered, faded, doing penance still, — 

Bearing with Moorish arch the imaged saint. 

Apostle, baron, Spanish warrior. 

Whose charger's hoofs trample the turbaned dead, 

Whose banner with the Cross, the bloody sword, 

Flashes athwart the Moslem's glazing eye, 

And mocks his trust in Allah who forsakes. 

Up to the church the Pla9a gently slopes, 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 59 

In shape most like the pious pahner's shell, 

Girdled with low white houses ; high above 

Tower the strong fortress and sharp-angled wall 

And well-flanked castle gate. From o'er the roofs, 

And from the shadowed patios cool, there spreads 

The breath of floAvers and aromatic leaves 

Soothing the sense with bliss indefinite, — 

A baseless hope, a glad presentiment, 

That curves the lip more softly, fills the eye 

With more indulgent beam. And so it soothes, 

So gently sways the pulses of the crowd 

Who make a zone about the central spot 

Chosen by Eoldan for his theatre. 

Maids with arched eyebrows, delicate-pencilled, dark, 

Fold their round arms below the kerchief full ; 

Men shoulder little girls ; and grandames gray. 

But muscular still, hold babies on their arms ; 

While mothers keep the stout-legged boys in front 

Against their skirts, as old Greek pictures show 

The Glorious Mother with the Boy divine. 

Youths keep the places for themselves, and roll 

Large lazy eyes, and call recumbent dogs 

(For reasons deep below the reach of thought). 

The old men cough with purpose, wish to hint 

Wisdom within that cheapens jugglery. 

Maintain a neutral air, and knit their brows 

In observation. None are quarrelsome, 

Noisy, or very merry ; for their blood 

Moves slowly into fervor, — they rejoice 

Like those dark birds that sweep with heavy wing. 

Cheering their mates with melancholy cries. 

But now the gilded balls begin to play 

In rhythmic numbers, ruled by practice fine 

Of eye and muscle : all the juggler's form 



60 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Consents harmonious in swift-gliding change, 
Easily forward stretched or backward bent 
With lightest step and movement circular 
Round a fixed point : 't is not the old Roldan now, 
The dull, hard, weary, miserable man, 
The soul all parched to languid appetite 
And memory of desire : 't is wondrous force 
That moves in combination multiform 
Towards conscious ends : 't is Eoldan glorious. 
Holding all eyes like any meteor, 
King of the moment save when Annibal 
Divides the scene and plays the comic part, 
Gazing with blinking glances up and down. 
Dancing and throwing naught and catching it. 
With mimicry as merry as the tasks 
Of penance-working shades in Tartarus. 

Pablo stands passive, and a space apart. 

Holding a viol, waiting for command. 

Music must not be wasted, but must rise 

As needed climax ; and the audience 

Is growing with late comers. Juan now. 

And the familiar Host, with Blasco broad, 

Find way made gladly to the inmost round 

Studded with heads. Lorenzo knits the crowd 

Into one family by showing all 

Good-will and recognition. Juan casts 

His large and rapid-measuring glance around ; 

But — with faint quivering, transient as a breath 

Shaking a flame — his eyes make sudden pause 

Where by the jutting angle of a street 

Castle-ward leading, stands a female form, 

A kerchief pale square-drooping o'er the brow, 

About her shoulders dim brown serge, — in garb 

Most like a peasant-woman from the vale. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 61 

Who might have lingered after marketing 

To see the show. What thrill mysterious, 

Ray-borne from orb to orb of conscious eyes, 

The swift observing sweep of Juan's glance 

Arrests an instant, then with prompting fresh 

Diverts it lastingly ? He turns at once 

To watch the gilded balls, and nod and smile 

At little round Pepfta, blondest maid 

In all Bedmar, — Pepita, fair yet flecked. 

Saucy of lip and nose, of hair as red 

As breasts of robins stepping on the snow, — 

Who stands in front with little tapping feet. 

And baby -dimpled hands that hide enclosed 

Those sleeping crickets, the dark castanets. 

But soon the gilded balls have ceased to play, 

And Annibal is leaping through the hoops 

That turn to twelve, meeting him as he flies 

In the swift circle. Shuddering he leaps. 

But with each spring flies swift and swifter still 

To loud and louder shouts, while the great hoops 

Are changed to smaller. Now the crowd is fired. 

The motion swift, the living victim urged. 

The imminent failure and repeated scape 

Hurry all pulses and intoxicate 

With subtle wine of passion many-mixt. 

'T is all about a monkey leaping hard 

Till near to gasping ; but it serves as well 

As the great circus or arena dire. 

Where these are lacking. Eoldan cautiously 

Slackens the leaps and lays the hoops to rest. 

And Annibal retires with reeling brain 

And backward stagger, — pity, he could not smile ! 

Now Eoldan spreads his carpet, now he shows 
Strange metamorphoses : the pebble black 



62 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Changes to whitest egg within his hand ; 

A staring rabbit, with retreating ears, 

Is swallowed by the air and vanishes ; 

He tells men's thoughts about the shaken dice, 

Their secret choosings ; makes the white beans pass 

With causeless act sublime from cup to cup 

Turned empty on the ground, — diablerie 

That pales the girls and puzzles all the boys : 

These tricks are samples, hinting to the town 

Koldan's great mastery. He tumbles next, 

And Annibal is called to mock each feat 

With arduous comicality and save 

By rule romantic the great public mind 

(And Eoldan's body) from too serious strain. 

But with the tumbling, lest the feats should fail. 

And so need veiling in a haze of sound, 

Pablo awakes the viol and the bow, — 

The masculine bow that draws the woman's heart 

From out the strings and makes them cry, yearn, plead. 

Tremble, exult, with mystic union 

Of joy acute and tender suffering. 

To play the viol and discreetly mix 

Alternate with the bow's keen biting tones 

The throb responsive to the finger's touch, 

Was rarest skill that Pablo half had caught 

From an old blind and wandering Catalan ; 

The other half was rather heritage 

From treasure stored by generations past 

In winding chambers of receptive sense. 

The winged sounds exalt the thick-pressed crowd 
With a new pulse in common, blending all 
The gazing life into one larger soul 
With dimly widened consciousness : as waves 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 63 

In heightened movement tell of waves far off. 

And the light changes ; westward stationed clouds, 

The sun's ranged outposts, luminous message spread, 

Rousing quiescent things to doff their shade 

And show themselves as added audience. 

Now Pablo, letting fall the eager bow, 

Solicits softer murmurs from the strings, 

And now above them pours a wondrous voice 

(Such as Greek reapers heard in Sicily) 

With wounding rapture in it, like love's arrows ; 

And clear upon clear air as colored gems 

Dropped in a crystal cup of water pure, 

Fall words of sadness, simple, lyrical : 

Spring comes hither, 

Buds the rose ; 
Boses tvither, 

Sweet spring goes. 
Ojald, tvould she carry me ! 

Summer soars, — 

Wide-winged day 
JVIiite light pours, 
Flies away. 
Ojald, would he carry me ! 

Soft winds blow, 

Westward born, 
Omvard go 

Toward the morn. 
Ojald, would they carry me ! 

Sweet birds sing 

O^er the graves. 
Then take wing 
O^er the waves. 
Ojald, would they carry me ! 



64 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

When the voice paused and left the viol's note 
To plead forsaken, 't was as when a cloud, 
Hiding the sun, makes all the leaves and flowers 
Shiver. But when with measured change the strings 
Had taught regret new longing, clear again. 
Welcome as hoj)e recovered, flowed the voice. 

Warm ivMspering through the slender olive leaves 
Came to me a gentle sound, 
Whispering of a secret found 

In the dear sunshine 'mid the golden sheaves : 

Said it was sleeping for me in the m,om, 
Called it gladness, called it joy, 
Drew me on — " Come hither, boy " — 

To where the blue wings rested on the corn. 

I thought the gentle sound had xvhispered true, — 
Thought the little heaven mine, 
Leaned to clutch the thing divine. 

And saiv the blue wings melt within the blue. 

The long notes linger on the trembling air, 

With subtle penetration enter all 

The myriad corridors of the passionate soul. 

Message-like spread, and answering action rouse. 

Not angular jigs that warm the chilly limbs 

In hoary northern mists, but action curved 

To soft andante strains pitched plaintively. 

Vibrations sympathetic stir all limbs : 

Old men live backward in their dancing prime, 

And move in memory ; small legs and arms 

With pleasant agitation purposeless 

Go up and down like pretty fruits in gales. 

All long in common for the expressive act 

Yet wait for it ; as in the olden time 

Men waited for the bard to tell their thought. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 65 

" The dance ! the dance ! " is shouted all around. 
IsTow Pablo lifts the bow, Pepita now, 
Eeady as bird that sees the sprinkled corn, 
When Juan nods and smiles, puts forth her foot 
And lifts her arm to wake the castanets. 
Juan advances, too, from out the ring 
And bends to quit his lute ; for now the scene 
Is empty ; Eoldan, weary, gathers pence. 
Followed by Annibal with purse and stick. 
The carpet lies a colored isle untrod. 
Inviting feet : " The dance, the dance," resounds. 
The bow entreats with slow melodic strain, 
And all the air with expectation yearns. 

Sudden, with gliding motion like a flame 

That through dim vapor makes a path of glory, 

A figure lithe, all white and saffron-robed, 

Flashed right across the circle, and now stood 

With ripened arms uplift and regal head, 

Like some tall flower whose dark and intense heart 

Lies half within a tulip-tinted cup. 

Juan stood fixed and pale ; Pepita stepped 
Backward within the ring : the voices fell 
From shouts insistent to more passive tones 
Half meaning welcome, half astonishment. 
" Lady Fedalma ! — will she dance for us ? " 

But she, sole swayed by impulse passionate, 

Feeling all life was music and all eyes 

The warming, quickening light that music makes. 

Moved as, in dance religious, Miriam, 

When on the Red Sea shore she raised her voice. 

And led the chorus of her people's joy ; 

Or as the Trojan maids that reverent sang 



66 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Watching the sorrow-crowned Hecuba : 

Moved in slow curves vokiminous, gradual, 

Feeling and action flowing into one, 

In Eden's natural taintless marriage-bond ; 

Ardently modest, sensuously pure. 

With young delight that wonders at itself 

And throbs as innocent as opening flowers. 

Knowing not comment, — soilless, beautiful. 

The spirit in her gravely glowing face 

With sweet community informs her limbs, 

Filling their fine gradation with the breath 

Of virgin majesty ; as full vo welled words 

Are new impregnate with the master's thought. 

Even the chance-strayed delicate tendrils black. 

That backward 'scape from out her wreathing hair, • 

Even the pliant folds that cling transverse 

When with obliquely soaring bend altern 

She seems a goddess quitting earth again — 

Gather expression — a soft undertone 

And resonance exquisite from the grand chord 

Of her harmoniously bodied soul. 

At first a reverential silence guards 

The eager senses of the gazing crowd : 

They hold their breath, and live by seeing her. 

But soon the admiring tension finds relief, — 

Sighs of delight, applausive murmurs low, 

And stirrings gentle as of eared corn 

Or seed-bent grasses, when the ocean's breath 

Spreads landward. Even Juan is impelled 

By the swift-travelling movement : fear and doubt 

Give way before the hurrying energy ; 

He takes his lute and strikes in fellowship, 

Filling more full the rill of melody 

Eaised ever and anon to clearest flood 




' A figure lithe, all white and safFron-i-o'bed, 
Flashed right across the circle." 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 67 

By Pablo's voice, that dies away too soon, 
Like the sweet blackbird's fragmentary chant, 
Yet wakes again, with varying rise and fall, 
In songs that seem emergent memories 
Prompting brief utterance, — little cancions 
And villancicos, Andalusia-born. 

Pablo (sings). 

It loas in the prime 

Of the sweet Spring-time. 

In the linnet's throat 

Tremhled the love-note, 
And the love-stirred air 
Thrilled the hlossoms there. 

Little shadou's danced 
Each a tiny elf, 

Happy z?^ large light 
And the thinnest self 

It was but a minute 

In a far-off Spring, 

But each gentle thing, 
Sweetly-wooing linnet, 

Soft-thrilled haiothorn-tree, 
Happy shadowy elf 
With the thinnest self 

Live still on in me. 
Oh, the sweet, sweet prime 
Of the past Spring-time ! 

And still the light is changing : high above 
Float soft pink clouds ; others with deeper flush 
Stretch like flamingoes bending toward the south. 
Comes a more solemn brilliance o'er the sky, 
A meaning more intense upon the air, — 



68 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

The inspiration of the dying day. 
And Juan now, when Pablo's notes subside, 
Soothes the regretful ear, and breaks the pause 
With masculine voice in deep antiphony. 

Juan (sings). 

Day is dying ! Float, song, 

Down the tuestward river. 
Requiem, chanting to the Day, — 

Day, the mighty Giver. 

Pierced by shafts of Time he bleeds 

Melted mbies sending 
Through the river and the sky, 

Earth and heaven blending ; 

All the long-drawn earthy banks 

Up to cloud-land lifting : 
Slow between them dnfts the swan, 

'Twixt two heavens drifting. 

Wings half open, like a flower 

Inly deeper flushing. 
Neck and breast as virgin's pure, — 

Virgin proudly blushing. 

Day is dying ! Float, swan, 

Down the ruby river ; 
Follow, song, in requiem 

To the mighty Giver. 

The exquisite hour, the ardor of the crowd, 

The strains more plenteous, and the gathering might 

Of action passionate where no effort is, 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 69 

But self's poor gates open to rushing power 

That blends the inward ebb and outward vast, — 

All gathering influences culminate 

And urge Fedalma. Earth and heaven seem one, 

Life a glad trembling on the outer edge 

Of unknown rapture. Swifter now she moves, 

Filling the measure with a double beat 

And widening circle ; now she seems to glow 

With more declared presence, glorified. 

Circling, she lightly bends and lifts on high 

The multitudinous-sounding tambourine. 

And makes it ring and boom, then lifts it higher 

Stretching her left arm beauteous ; now the crowd 

Exultant shouts, forgetting poverty 

In the rich moment of possessing her. 

But sudden, at one point, the exultant throng 
Is pushed and hustled, and then thrust apart : 
Something approaches, — something cuts the ring 
Of jubilant idlers, — startling as a streak 
From alien wounds across the blooming flesh 
Of careless sporting childhood. 'T is the band 
Of Gypsy prisoners. Soldiers lead the van 
And make sparse flanking guard, aloof surveyed 
By gallant Lopez, stringent in command. 
The Gypsies chained in couples, all save one. 
Walk in dark file with grand bare legs and arms 
And savage melancholy in their eyes 
That star-like gleam from out black clouds of hair ; 
Now they are full in sight, and now they stretch 
Eight to the centre of the open space. 
Fedalma now, with gentle wheeling sweep 
Returning, like the loveliest of the Hours 
Strayed from her sisters, truant lingering, 
Faces again the centre, swings again 



70 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

The uplifted tambourine 

When lo ! with sound 
Stupendous throbbing, solemn as a voice 
Sent by the invisible choir of all the dead, 
Tolls the great passing bell that calls to prayer 
For souls departed : at the mighty beat 
It seems the light sinks awe-struck, — 't is the note 
Of the sun's burial ; speech and action pause ; 
Eeligious silence and the holy sign 
Of everlasting memories (the sign 
Of death that turned to more diffusive life) 
Pass o'er the Pla9a. Little children gaze 
With lips apart, and feel the unknown god ; 
And the most men and women pray. Not all. 
The soldiers pray ; the Gypsies stand unmoved 
As pagan statues with proud level gaze. 
But he who wears a solitary chain 
Heading the file, has turned to face Fedalma. 
She motionless, with arm uplifted, guards 
The tambourine aloft (lest, sudden-lowered, 
Its trivial jingle mar the duteous pause), 
Eeveres the general prayer, but prays not, stands 
With level glance meeting that Gypsy's eyes, 
That seem to her the sadness of the world 
Eebuking her, the great bell's hidden thought 
Now first unveiled, — the sorrows unredeemed 
Of races outcast, scorned, and wandering. 
Why does he look at her ? why she at him ? 
As if the meeting light between their eyes 
Made permanent union ? His deep-knit brow, 
Inflated nostril, scornful lip compressed, 
Seem a dark hieroglyph of coming fate 
W^ritten before her. Father Isidor 
Had terrible eyes, and was her enemy ; 
She knew it and defied him ; all her soul 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 71 

E-ounded and hardened in its separateness 

When they encountered. But this prisoner, — 

This Gypsy, passing, gazing casually, — 

Was he her enemy too ? She stood all quelled. 

The impetuous joy that hurried in her veins 

Seemed backward rushing turned to chillest awe. 

Uneasy wonder, and a vague self-doubt. 

The minute brief stretched measureless, dream-filled 

By a dilated new-fraught consciousness. 

Now it was gone ; the pious murmur ceased, 
The Gypsies all moved onward at command 
And careless noises blent confusedly. 
But the ring closed again, and many ears 
Waited for Pablo's music, many eyes 
Turned towards the carpet : it lay bare and dim, 
Twilight was there, — the bright Fedalma gone. 



A handsome room in the Castle. On a table a rich 
jewel-casket. 

Silva had dropped his mail and with it all 
The heavier harness of his warlike cares. 
He had not seen Fedalma ; miser-like 
He hoarded through the hour a costlier joy 
By longing oft-repressed. Now it was earned ; 
And with observance wonted he would send 
To ask admission. Spanish gentlemen 
Who wooed fair dames of noble ancestry 
Did homage with rich tunics and slashed sleeves 
And outward-surging linen's costly snow ; 
With broidered scarf transverse, and rosary 
Handsomely wrought to fit high-blooded prayer ; 
So hinting in how deep respect they held 



72 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

That self they threw before their lady's feet. 

And Silva — that Fedalma's rate should stand 

No jot below the highest, that her love 

Might seem to all the royal gift it was — 

Turned every trifle in his mien and garb 

To scrupulous language, uttering to the world 

That since she loved him he went carefully, 

Bearing a thing so precious in his hand. 

A man of high-wrought strain, fastidious 

In his acceptance, dreading all delight 

That speedy dies and turns to carrion : 

His senses much exacting, deep instilled 

With keen imagination's difficult needs ; — 

Like strong-limbed monsters studded o'er with eyes, 

Their hunger checked by overwhelming vision, 

Or that fierce lion in symbolic dream 

Snatched from the ground by wings and new-endowed 

With a man's thought-propelled relenting heart. 

Silva was both the lion and the man ; 

First hesitating shrank, then fiercely sprang, 

Or having sprung, turned pallid at his deed 

And loosed the prize, paying his blood for naught. 

A nature half-transformed, with qualities 

That oft bewrayed each other, elements 

Not blent but struggling, breeding strange effects, 

Passing the reckoning of his friends or foes. 

Haughty and generous, grave and passionate ; 

With tidal moments of devoutest awe. 

Sinking anon to furthest ebb of doubt ; 

Deliberating ever, till the sting 

Of a recurrent ardor made him rush 

E-ight against reasons that himself had drilled 

And marshalled painfully. A spirit framed 

Too proudly special for obedience. 

Too subtly pondering for mastery : 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 73 

Born of a goddess with a mortal sire, 

Heir of flesh-fettered, weak divinity. 

Doom-gifted with long resonant consciousness 

And perilous heightening of the sentient soul. 

But look less curiously : life itself 

May not express us all, may leave the worst 

And the best too, like tunes in mechanism 

Never awaked. In various catalogues 

Objects stand variously. Silva stands 

As a young Spaniard, handsome, noble, brave. 

With titles many, high in pedigree ; 

Or, as a nature quiveringly poised 

In reach of storms, whose qualities may turn 

To murdered virtues that still walk as ghosts 

Within the shuddering soul and shriek remorse ; 

Or, as a lover .... In the screening time 

Of purple blossoms, when the petals crowd 

And softly crush like cherub cheeks in heaven, 

Who thinks of greenly withered fruit and worms ? 

Oh the warm southern spring is beauteous ! 

And in love's spring all good seems possible : 

iSTo threats, all promise, brooklets ripple full 

And bathe the rushes, vicious crawling things 

Are pretty eggs, the sun shines graciously 

And parches not, the silent rain beats warm 

As childhood's kisses, days are young and grow, 

And earth seems in its sweet beginning time 

Fresh made for two who live in Paradise. 

Silva is in love's spring, its freshness breathed 

Within his soul along the dusty ways 

While marching homeward ; 't is around him now 

As in a garden fenced in for delight, — 

And he may seek delight. Smiling he lifts 

A whistle from his belt, but lets it fall 

Ere it has reached his lips, jarred by the sound 



74 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Of ushers' knocking, and a voice that craves 
Admission for the Prior of San Domingo. 

Prior (entering). 

You look perturbed, my son. I thrust myself 
Between you and some beckoning intent 
That wears a face more smiling than my own. 

Don Silva. 

Father, enough that you are here. I wait, 

As always, your commands, — nay, should have sought 

An early audience. 

Prick. 

To give, I trust, 
Good reasons for your change of policy ? 

Don Silva. 
Strong reasons, father. 

Prior. 

Ay, but are they good ? 
I have known reasons strong, but strongly evil. 

Don Silva. 

'T is possible. I but deliver mine 

To your strict judgment. Late despatches sent 

With urgence by the Count of Bavien, 

No hint on my part prompting, with besides 

The testified concurrence of the king 

And our Grand Master, have made peremptory 

The course which else had been but rational. 

Without the forces furnished by allies 

The siege of Guadix would be madness. More, 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 75 

El Zagal has his eyes upon Beclinar : 

Let him attempt it : in three weeks from hence 

The Master and the Lord of Agnilar 

Will bring their forces. We shall catch the Moors, 

The last gleaned clusters of their bravest men, 

As in a trap. You have my reasons, father. 

Prior. 

And they sound well. But free-tongued rumor adds 

A pregnant supplement, — in substance this : 

That inclination snatches arguments 

To make indulgence seem judicious choice ; 

That you, commanding in God's Holy War, 

Lift prayers to Satan to retard the light 

And give you time for feasting, — wait a siege, 

Call daring enterprise impossible. 

Because you 'd marry ! You, a Spanish duke, 

Christ's general, would marry like a clown. 

Who, selling fodder dearer for the war. 

Is all the merrier ; nay, like the brutes. 

Who know no awe to check their appetite, 

Coupling 'mid heaps of slain, while still in front 

The battle rages. 

Don Silva. 

Rumor on your lips 



Is eloquent, father. 



Prior. 

Is she true ? 



Don Silva. 

Perhaps, 
I seek to justify my public acts 
And not my private joy. Before the world 
Enough if I am faithful in command^ 



76 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Betray not by my deeds, swerve from no task 
My knightly vows constrain me to ; herein 
I ask all men to test me. 

Prior. 

Knightly vows ? 
Is it by their constraint that you must marry ? 

Don Silva. 
Marriage is not a breach of them. I use 
A sanctioned liberty .... your pardon, father, 
I need not teach you what the Church decrees. 
But facts may weaken texts, and so dry up 
The fount of eloquence. The Church relaxed 
Our Order's rule before I took the vows. 

Prior. 
Ignoble liberty ! you snatch your rule 
From what God tolerates, not what he loves ? — 
Inquire what lowest offering may suffice, 
Cheapen it meanly to an obolus. 
Buy, and then count the coin left in your purse 
For your debauch ? — Measure obedience 
By scantest powers of feeble brethren 
Whom Holy Church indulges ? — Ask great Law, 
The rightful Sovereign of the human soul, 
For what it pardons, not what it commands ? 
Oh fallen knighthood, penitent of high vows, 
Asking a charter to degrade itself ! 
Such poor apology of rules relaxed 
Blunts not suspicion of that doubleness 
Your enemies tax you with. 

Don Silva. 

Oh, for the rest. 
Conscience is harder than our enemies. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 77 

Knows more, accuses with more nicety, 
Nor needs to question. Rumor if we fall 
Below the perfect model of .our thought. 
I fear no outward arbiter. — You smile ? 

Prior. 
Ay, at the contrast 'twixt your portraiture 
And the true image of your conscience, shown 
As now I see it in your acts. I see 
A drunken sentinel who gives alarm 
At his own shadow, but when scalers snatch 
His weapon from his hand smiles idiot-like 
At games he 's dreaming of. 

Don Silva. 

A parable ! 
The husk is rough, — holds something bitter, doubtless. 

Prior. 

Oh, the husk gapes with meaning over-ripe. 
You boast a conscience that controls your deeds, 
AVatches your knightly armor, guards your rank 
From stain of treachery, — you, helpless slave, 
Whose will lies nerveless in the clutch of lust, — 
Of blind mad passion, — passion itself most helpless, 
Storm-driven, like the monsters of the sea. 
O famous conscience ! 

Don Silva. 
Pause there ! Leave unsaid 
Aught that will match that text. More were too much, 
Even from holy lips. I own no love 
But such as guards my honor, since it guards 
Hers whom I love ! I suffer no foul words 
To stain the gift I lay before her feet ; 
And, being hers, my honor is more safe. 



78 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Prior. 

Verse-makers' talk ! fit for a world of rhymes, 

Where facts are feigned to tickle idle ears, 

Where good and evil play at tournament 

And end in amity, — a world of lies, — 

A carnival of words where every year 

Stale falsehoods serve fresh men. Your honor safe ? 

What honor has a man with double bonds ? 

Honor is shifting as the shadows are 

To souls that turn their passions into laws. 

A Christian knight who weds an infidel .... 

Don Silva (^fiercely). 

An infidel ! 

Prior. 

May one day spurn the Cross, 
And call that honor ! — one day find his sword 
Stained with his brother's blood, and call that honor ! 
Apostates' honor ? — harlots' chastity ! 
Renegades' faithfulness ? — Iscariot's ! 

Don Silva. 

Strong words and burning ; but they scorch not me. 
Pedalma is a daughter of the Church, — 
Has been baptized and nurtured in the faith. 

Prior. 

Ay, as a thousand Jewesses, who yet 
Are brides of Satan in a robe of flames. 

Don Silva. 

Fedalma is no Jewess, bears no marks 
Tliat tell of Hebrew blood. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 79 

Prior. 

She bears the marks 
Of races unbaptized, that never bowed 
Before the holy signs, were never moved 
By stirrings of the sacramental gifts. 

Don Silva {scornfully). 
Holy accusers practise palmistry, 
And, other witness lacking, read the skin. 

Prior. 

I read a record deeper than the skin. 

What ! Shall the trick of nostrils and of lips 

Descend through generations, and the soul 

That moves within our frame like God in worlds — 

Convulsing, urging, melting, withering — 

Imprint no record, leave no documents, 

Of her great history ? Shall men bequeath 

The fancies of their palate to their sons, 

And shall the shudder of restraining awe. 

The slow-wept tears of contrite memory, 

Faith's prayerful labor, and the food divine 

Of fasts ecstatic, — shall these pass away 

Like wind upon the waters, tracklessly ? 

Shall the mere curl of eyelashes remain 

And god-enshrining symbols leave no trace 

Of tremors reverent ? — That maiden's blood 

Is as unchristian as the leopard's. 

Don Silva. 

Say, 
Unchristian as the Blessed Virgin's blood 
Before the angel spoke the word, " All hail ! " 

Prior (smiling hitterly). 
Say I not truly ? See, your passion weaves 
Already blasphemies ! 



80 POEMS OF GEORCxE ELIOT. 

Don Silva, 

'T is you provoke them. 

Prior. 

I strive, as still the Holy Spirit strives, 

To move the will perverse. But, failing this, 

God commands other means to save our blood, 

To save Castilian glory, — nay, to save 

The name of Christ from blot of traitorous deeds. 

Don Silva. 
Of traitorous deeds ! Age, kindred, and your cowl, 
Give an ignoble license to your tongue. 
As for your threats, fulfil them at your peril. 
'T is you, not I, will gibbet our great name 
To rot in infamy. If I am strong 
In patience now, trust me, I can be strong 
Then in defiance. 

Prior. 
Miserable man ! 
Your strength will turn to anguish, like the strength 
Of fallen angels. Can you change your blood ? 
You are a Christian, with the Christian awe 
In every vein. A Spanish noble, born 
To serve your people and your people's faith. 
Strong, are you ? Turn your back upon the Cross, — 
Its shadow is before you. Leave your place : 
Quit the great ranks of knighthood : you will walk 
Forever with a tortured double self, 
A self that will be hungry while you feast, 
Will blush with shame while you are glorified, 
Will feel the ache and chill of desolation, 
Even in the very bosom of your love. 
Mate yourself with this woman, fit for what ? 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 81 

To make the sport of Moorish palaces, 
A lewd Herodias .... 

Don Silva. 

Stop ! no other man, 
Priest though he were, had had his throat left free 
For passage of those words. I would have clutched 
His serpent's neck, and flung him out to hell ! 
A monk must needs defile the name of love : 
He knows it but as tempting devils paint it. 
You think to scare my love from its resolve 
With arbitrary consequences, strained 
By rancorous effort from the thinnest motes 
Of possibility ? — cite hideous lists 
Of sins irrelevant, to frighten me 
With bugbears' names, as women fright a child ? 
Poor pallid wisdom, taught by inference 
From blood-drained life, where phantom terrors rule, 
And all achievement is to leave undone ! 
Paint the day dark, make sunshine cold to me, 
Abolish the earth's fairness, prove it all 
A fiction of my eyes, — then, after that. 
Profane Fedalma. 

Prior. 

Oh, there is no need : 
She has profaned herself. Go, raving man. 
And see her dancing now. Go, see your bride 
Flaunting her beauties grossly in the gaze 
Of vulgar idlers, — eking out the show 
Made in the Pla9a by a mountebank. 
I hinder you no further. 

Don Silva. 

It is false ! 



82 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Prior. 
Go, prove it false, then. 

[Father Isidor 
Drew on his cowl and turned away. The face 
That flashed anathemas, in swift eclipse 
Seemed Silva's vanished confidence. In haste 
He rushed unsignalled through the corridor 
To where the Duchess once, Fedalma now, 
Had residence retired from din of arms, — 
Knocked, opened, found all empty, — said 
With muffled voice, " Fedalma ! " — called more loud, 
More oft on Inez, the old trusted nurse, — 
Then searched the terrace-garden, calling still, 
But heard no answering sound, and saw no face 
Save painted faces staring all unmoved 
By agitated tones. He hurried back. 
Giving half-conscious orders as he went 
To page and usher, that they straight should seek 
Lady Fedalma ; then with stinging shame 
Wished himself silent ; reached again the room 
Where still the Father's menace seemed to hang 
Thickening the air ; snatched cloak and plumed hat. 
And grasped, not knowing why, his poniard's hilt ; 
Then checked himself and said : — ] 

If he spoke truth ! 
To know were wound enough, — to see the truth 
Were fire upon the wound. It must be false ! 
His hatred saw amiss, or snatched mistake 
In other men's report. I am a fool ! 
But where can she be gone ? gone secretly ? 
And in my absence ? Oh, she meant no wrong ! 
I am a fool ! — But where can she be gone ? 
With only Inez ? Oh, she meant no wrong ! 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 83 

I swear she never meant it. There 's no wrong 
But she would make it momentary right 

By innocence in doing it 

And yet, 
What is our certainty ? Why, knowing all 
That is not secret. Mighty confidence ! 
One pulse of Time makes the base hollow, — sends 
The towering certainty we built so high 
Toppling in fragments meaningless. What is — 
What will be — must be — pooh ! they wait the key 
Of that which is not yet ; all other keys 
Are made of our conjectures, take their sense 
From humors fooled by hope, or by despair. 
Know what is good ? Oh God, we know not yet 
If bliss itself is not young misery 

With fangs swift growing 

But some outward harm 
May even now be hurting, grieving her. 
Oh, I must search, — face shame, — if shame be there. 
Here, Perez ! hasten to Don Alvar, — tell him 
Lady Fedalma must be sought, — is lost, — 
Has met, I fear, some mischance. He must send 
Towards divers points. I go myself to seek 
First in the town 

[As Perez oped the door. 
Then moved aside for passage of the Duke, 
Fedalma entered, cast away the cloud 
Of serge and linen, and, outbeaming bright, 
Advanced a pace towards Silva, — but then paused. 
For he had started and retreated ; she. 
Quick and responsive as the subtle air 
To change in him, divined that she must wait 
Until they were alone : they stood and looked. 
Within the Duke was struggling confluence 



84 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Of feelings manifold, — pride, anger, dread, 

Meeting in stormy rush with sense secure 

That she was present, with the satisfied thirst 

Of gazing love, with trust inevitable 

As in beneficent virtues of the light 

And all earth's sweetness, that Fedalma's soul 

Was free from blemishing purpose. Yet proud wrath 

Leaped in dark flood above the purer stream 

That strove to drown it : Anger seeks its prey, — 

Something to tear with sharp-edged tooth and claw, 

Likes not to go off hungry, leaving Love 

To feast on milk and honeycomb at will. 

Silva's heart said, he must be happy soon, 

She being there ; but to be happy, — first 

He must be angry, having cause. Yet love 

Shot like a stifled cry of tenderness 

All through the harshness he would fain have given 

To the dear word,] 

Don Silva. 
Fedalma ! 

Fed ALMA. 

my Lord ! 



You are come back, and I was wandering 



Don Silva {coldly, hut with suppressed agitation). 
You meant I should be ignorant. 

Fedalma. 

Oh no, 
I should have told you after, — not before, 
Lest you should hinder me, 

Don Silva, 

Then my known wish 
Can make no hindrance ? 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 85 

Fedalma (archly). 

That depends 
On what the wish may be. You wished me once 
Not to uncage the birds. I meant to obey : 
But in a moment something — something stronger, 
Forced me to let them out. It did no harm. 
They all came back again, — the silly birds ! 
I told you, after. 

Don Silva (with haughty coldness). 
Will you tell me now 
What was the prompting stronger than my wish 
That made you wander ? 

FedaIiMA (advancing a, step towards hint, with a 
sudden look of anxiety). 

Are you angry ? 

Don Silva (smiling bitterly). 

Angry ? 
A man deep-wounded may feel too much pain 
To feel much anger. 

Fedalma (still more anxiously). 

You — deep-wounded ? 

Don Silva. 

Yes! 
Have I not made your place and dignity 
The very heart of my ambition ? You, — 
No enemy could do it, — you alone 
Can strike it mortally. 

Fedalma. 

Nay, Silva, nay. 
Has some one told you false ? I only went 
To see the world with Inez, — see the town, 



86 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

The people, everything. It was no harm. 
I did not mean to dance : it happened so 
At last .... 

Don Silva. 
God, it 's true, then ! — true that you, 
A maiden nurtured as rare flowers are, 
The very air of heaven sifted fine 
Lest any mote should mar your purity. 
Have flung yourself out on the dusty way 
For common eyes to see your beauty soiled ! 
You own it true, — you danced upon the Pla^a ? 

Fed ALMA (^jproudhj). 
Yes, it is true. I was not wrong to dance. 
The air was filled with music, with a song 
That seemed the voice of the sweet eventide, — 
The glowing light entering through eye and ear, — 
That seemed our love, — mine, yours, — they are but one, — 
Trembling through all my limbs, as fervent words 
Tremble within my soul and must be spoken. 
And all the people felt a common joy 
And shouted for the dance. A brightness soft 
As of the angels moving down to see 
Illumined the broad space. The joy, the life 
Around, within me, were one heaven : I longed 
To blend them visibly : I longed to dance 
Before the people, — be as mounting flame 
To all that burned within them ! Nay, I danced ; 
There was no longing : I but did the deed 
Being moved to do it. 

{As Fedalma speaks, she and Don Silva are grad- 
ually drawn nearer to each other.) 

Oh, I seemed new-waked 
To life in unison with a multitude, — 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 87 

Feeling my soul upborne by all their souls, 
Floating within their gladness ! Soon I lost 
All sense of separateness : Feclalma died 
As a star dies, and melts into the light. 
I was not, but joy was, and love and triumph. 
Nay, my dear lord, I never could do aught 
But I must feel you present. And once done. 
Why, you must love it better than your wish. 
I pray you, say so, — say, it was not wrong ! 

(While Fed ALMA has been making this last appeal, 

they have gradually come close together, and at 

last embrace.) 

Don Silva (Jiolding her hands). 
Dangerous rebel ! if the world without 
Were pure as that within .... but 't is a book 
Wherein you only read the poesy 
And miss all wicked meanings. Hence the need 
For trust — obedience, — call it what you will, — 
Towards him whose life will be your guard, — towards 

me 
Who now am soon to be your husband. 

Fed alma. 

Yes! 
That very thing that when I am your wife 
I shall be something different, — shall be 
I know not what, a duchess with new thoughts, — 
For nobles never think like common men. 
Nor wives like maidens (oh, you wot not yet 
How much I note, with all my ignorance), — 
That very thing has made me more resolve 
To have my will before I am your wife. 
How can the Duchess ever satisfy 
Fedalma's unwed eyes ? and so to-day 
I scolded Inez till she cried and went. 



88 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT, 

Don Silva. 

It was a guilty weakness : she knows well 
That since you pleaded to be left more free 
From tedious tendance and control of dames 
Whose rank matched better with your destiny, 
Her charge — my trust — was weightier. 

Fed ALMA. 

Nay, my lord. 
You must not blame her, dear old nurse. She cried. 
Why, you would have consented too, at last. 
I said such things ! I was resolved to go. 
And see the streets, the shops, the men at work, 
The women, little children, — everything, 
Just as it is when nobody looks on. 
And I have done it ! We were out four hours. 
I feel so wise. 

Don Silva. 

Had you but seen the town. 
You innocent naughtiness, not shown yourself, — 
Shown yourself dancing, — you bewilder me ! — 
Frustrate my judgment with strange negatives 
That seem like poverty, and yet are wealth 
In precious womanliness, beyond the dower 
Of other women : wealth in virgin gold, 
Outweighing all their petty currency. 
You daring modesty ! You shrink no more 
From gazing men than from the gazing flowers 
That, dreaming sunshine, open as you pass. 

Fedalma. 

No, I should like the world to look at me 
With eyes of love that make a second day. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 89 

I think your eyes would keep the life in me 
Though I had naught to feed on else. Their blue 
Is better than the heavens', — hold more love 
For me, Fedalma, — is a little heaven 
For this one little world that looks up now. 

Don Silva. 

precious little world ! you make the heaven 
As the earth makes the sky. But, dear, all eyes, 
Though looking even on you, have not a glance 
That cherishes .... 

Fedalma. 

Ah no, I meant to tell you, — 
Tell how my dancing ended with a pang. 
There came a man, one among many more, 
But he came first, with iron on his limbs. 
And when the bell tolled, and the people prayed, 
And I stood pausing, — then he looked at me. 
O Silva, such a man ! I thought he rose 
From the dark place of long-imprisoned souls, 
To say that Christ had never come to them. 
It was a look to shame a seraph's joy 
And make him sad in heaven. It found me there, — 
Seemed to have travelled far to find me there 
And grasp me, — claim this festal life of mine 
As heritage of sorrow, chill my blood 
With the cold iron of some unknown bonds. 
The gladness hurrying full within my veins 
Was sudden frozen, and I danced no more. 
But seeing you let loose the stream of joy. 
Mingling the present with the sweetest past. 
Yet, Silva, still I see him. Who is he ? 
Who are those prisoners with him ? Are they Moors ? 



90 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Don Silva. 

No, they are Gypsies, strong and cunning knaves, 
A double gain to us by the Moors' loss : 
The man you mean — their chief — is an ally 
The infidel will miss. His look might chase 
A herd of monks, and make them fly more swift 
Than from St. Jerome's lion. Such vague fear, 
Such bird-like tremors when that savage glance 
Turned full upon you in yoiir height of joy 
Was natural, was not worth emphasis. 
Forget it, dear. This hour is worth whole days 
When we are sundered. Danger urges us 
To quick resolve. 

Fed ALMA. 

What danger ? What resolve ? 
I never felt chill shadow in my heart 
Until this sunset. 

Don Silva. 

A dark enmity 
Plots how to sever us. And our defence 
Is speedy marriage, secretly achieved. 
Then publicly declared. Beseech you, dear. 
Grant me this confidence ; do my will in this, 
Trusting the reasons why I overset 
All my own airy building raised so high 
Of bridal honors, marking when you step 
From off your maiden throne to come to me 
And bear the yoke of love. There is great need. 
I hastened home, carrying this prayer to you 
Within my heart. The bishop is my friend. 
Furthers our marriage, holds in enmity — 
Some whom we love not and who love not us. 
By this night's moon our priest will be despatched 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 91 

From Jaen. I shall march an escort strong 
To meet him. Ere a second sun from this 
Has risen — you consenting — we may wed. 

Fedalma. 
None knowing that we wed ? 

Don Silva. 

Beforehand none 
Save Inez and Don Alvar. But the vows 
Once safely binding us, my household all 
Shall know you as their Duchess. Ko man then 
Can aim a blow at you but through my breast, 
And what stains you must stain our ancient name ; 
If any hate you I will take his hate 
And wear it as a glove upon my helm ; 
Nay, God himself will never have the power 
To strike you solely and leave me unhurt, 
He having made us one. Now put the seal 
Of your dear lips on that. 

Fedalma. 

A solemn kiss ? — 
Such as I gave you when you came that day 
From Cordova, when first we said we loved ? 
When you had left the ladies of the court 
For thirst to see me ; and you told me so ; 
And then I seemed to know why I had lived. 
I never knew before. A kiss like that ? 

Don Silva. 
Yes, yes, you face divine ! When was our kiss 
Like any other ? 

Fedalma. 

Nay, I cannot tell 
What other kisses are. But that one kiss 



92 POEMS OF GEORCxE ELIOT. 

Remains upon my lips. The angels, spirits, 
Creatures with finer sense, may see it there. 
And now another kiss that will not die. 
Saying, To-morrow I shall be your wife ! 

{They kiss, and pause a moment, looking ear- 
nestly in each other's eyes. Then Fedalma, 
breaking away from Don Silva, stands at a 
little distance from him with a look of roguish 
delight.) 

Now I am glad I saw the town to-day 

Before I am a Duchess, — glad I gave 

This poor Fedalma all her wish. For once, 

Long years ago, I cried when Inez said, 

" You are no more a little girl ; " I grieved 

To part forever from that little girl 

And all her happy world so near the ground. 

It must be sad to outlive aught we love. 

So I shall grieve a little for these days 

Of poor unwed Fedalma. Oh, they are sweet. 

And none will come just like them. Perhaps the wind 

Wails so in winter for the summers dead, 

And all sad sounds are nature's funeral cries 

For what has been and is not. Are they, Silva ? 

{She comes nearer to him, again, and lays her 
hand on his arm, looking up at him with mel- 
ancholy.) 

Don Silva. 

Why, dearest, you began in merriment, 

And end as sadly as a widowed bird. 

Some touch mysterious has new-tuned your soul 

To melancholy sequence. You soared high 

In that wild flight of rapture when you danced, 

And now you droop. 'T is arbitrary grief, 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 93 

Surfeit of happiness, that mourns for loss 

Of unwed love, which does biit die like seed 

For fuller harvest of our tenderness. 

We in our wedded life shall know no loss. 

We shall new-date our years. What went before 

Will be the time of promise, shadows, dreams ; 

But this, full revelation of great love. 

For rivers blent take in a broader heaven, 

And we shall blend our souls. Away with grief ! 

When this dear head shall wear the double crown 

Of wife and Duchess, — spiritually crowned 

With sworn espousal before God and man, — 

Visibly crowned with jewels that bespeak 

The chosen sharer of my heritage, — 

My love will gather perfectness, as thoughts 

That nourish us to magnanimity 

Grow perfect with more perfect utterance. 

Gathering full-shapen strength. And then these gems, 

(Don Silva draws Fedalma towards the jewel- 
casket on the table, and opens it.) 

Helping the utterance of my soul's full choice, 
Will be the words made richer by just use. 
And have new meaning in their lustrousness. 
You know these jewels ; they are precious signs 
Of long-transmitted honor, heightened still 
By worthy wearing ; and I give them you, — 
Ask you to take them, — place our house's trust 
In her sure keeping whom my heart has found 
Worthiest, most beauteous. These rubies — see — 
AVere falsely placed if not upon your brow. 

(Fedalma, while Don Silva holds open the cas- 
ket, bends over it, looking at the jewels with 
delight.) 



94 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Fed ALMA. 
Ah, I remember them. In childisli days 
I felt as if they were alive and breathed. 
I used to sit with awe and look at them. 
And now they will be mine ! I '11 put them on. 
Help me, my lord, and you shall see me now 
Somewhat as I shall look at Court with you. 
That we may know if I shall bear them well. 
I have a fear sometimes : I think your love 
Has never paused within your eyes to look, 
And only passes through them into mine. 
But when the Court is looking, and the queen. 
Your eyes will follow theirs. Oh, if you saw 
That I was other than you wished, — 't were death ! 

Don Silva (taking up a jewel and placing it against 
her ear). 

Nay, let us try. Take out your ear-ring, sweet. 
This ruby glows with longing for your ear. 

Fedalma (taking out her ear-rings, and then lifting 

up the other jewels, one by one). 
Pray, fasten in the rubies. 

(Don Silva begins to put in the ear-ring?) 
I was right ! 
These gems have life in them : their colors speak, 
Say what words fail of. So do many things, — 
The scent of jasmine, and the fountain's plash. 
The moving shadows on the far-off hills, 
The slanting moonlight and our clasping hands. 
Silva, there 's an ocean round our words 
That overflows and drowns them. Do you know 
Sometimes when we sit silent, and the air 
Breathes gently on us from the orange-trees, 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 95 

It seems that with the whisper of a word 
Our souls must shrink, get poorer, more apart. 
Is it not true ? 

Don Silva. 

Yes, dearest, it is true. 
Speech is but broken light upon the depth 
Of the unspoken : even your loved words 
Float in the larger meaning of your voice 
As something dimmer. 

(He is still trying in vain to fasten the second 
ear-ring, while she has stooped again over 
the casket.) 

Fedalma (raising her head). 

Ah ! your lordly hands 
Will never fix that jewel. Let me try. 
Women's small finger-tips have eyes, 

Don Silva. 

No, no ! 
I like the task, only you must be still. 

(/S'/te stands perfectlij still, clasping her hands 
together while he fastens the second ear-ring. 
Suddenly a clanking noise is heard ivithout.) 

Fedalma (starting with an expression of pain). 

What is that sound ? — that jarring cruel sound ? 
'T is there, — outside. 

{She tries to start away towards the window, 
but Don Silva detains her.) 

Don Silva. 

Oh heed it not, it comes 
From workmen in the outer gallery. 



96 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Fed ALMA. 

It is the sound of fetters : sound of work 
Is not so dismal. Hark, they pass along ! 
I know it is those Gypsy prisoners. 
I saw them, heard their chains. Oh horrible, 
To be in chains ! Why, I with all my bliss 
Have longed sometimes to fly and be at large j 
Hare felt imprisoned in my luxury 
With servants for my jailers. my lord, 
Do you not wish the world were different ? 

Don Silva. 

It will be different when this war has ceased. 
You, wedding me, will make it different, 
Making one life more perfect. 

Fed alma. 

That is true ! 
And I shall beg much kindness at your hands 
For those who are less happy than ourselves. — 
{Brightening.) Oh, I shall rule you ! ask for many things 
Before the world, which you will not deny 
For very pride, lest men should say, " The Duke 
Holds lightly by his Duchess ; he repents 
His humble choice." 

{She breaks away from him and returns to the jeiv- 
els, taking up a necklace, and clasping it on her 
neck, while he takes a circlet of diamonds and 
rubies and raises it towards her head as he 
speaks.) 

Don Silva. 

Doubtless, I shall persist 
In loving you, to disappoint the world ; 



THE spa:n^ish gypsy. 97 

Out of pure obstinacy feel myself 
Happiest of men. Now, take the coronet. 

(He places the circlet on her head.) 
The diamonds want more light. See, from this lamp 
I can set tapers burning. 

Fed ALMA. 

Tell me, now, 
When all these cruel wars are at an end, 
And when we go to Court at Cordova, 
Or Seville, or Toledo, — wait awhile, 
I must be farther off for you to see, — 

{She retreats to a distance from him, and then 
advances slowly.) 
Now think (I would the tapers gave more light !) 
If when you show me at the tournaments 
Among the other ladies, they will say, 
" Duke Silva is well matched. His bride was naught, 
Was some poor foster-child, no man knows what ; 
Yet is her carriage noble, all her robes 
Are worn with grace : she might have been well born." 
Will they say so ? Think now we are at Court, 
And all eyes bent on me. 

Don Silva. 

Fear not, my Duchess ! 
Some knight who loves may say his lady-love 
Is fairer, being fairest. None can say 
Don Silva's bride might better fit her rank. 
You will make rank seem natural as kind, 
As eagle's plumage or the lion's might. 
A crown upon your brow would seem God-made. 



98 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Fed ALMA. 
Then I am glad ! I shall try on to-night 
The other jewels, — have the tapers lit, 
And see the diamonds sparkle. 

{Site goes to the casket again.) 
Here is gold, — 
A necklace of pure gold, — most finely wrought. 

{She takes out a large gold necklace and holds 
it up before her, then turns to Don Silva.) 
But this is one that you have worn, my lord ? 

Don Silva. 
1^0, love, I never wore it. Lay it down. 

(He puts the necklace gently out of her hand, 
then joins both her hands and holds them up 
between his own.) 
You must not look at jewels any more, 
But look at me. 

Fedalma (looking up at him). 
you dear heaven ! 
I should see naught if you were gone. 'T is true 
My mind is too much given to gauds, — to things 
That fetter thought within this narrow space. 
That comes of fear. 

Don Silva. 

What fear ? 

Fed ALMA. 

Fear of myself 
For when I walk upon the battlements 
And see the river travelling toward the plain, 
The mountains screening all the world beyond. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 99 

A longing conies that haunts me in my dreams, — 
Dreams where I seem to spring from off the walls, 
And fly far, far away, until at last 
I find myself alone among the rocks, 
Eemember then that I have left you, — try 
To fly back to you, — and my wings are gone ! 

Don Silva. 

A wicked dream ! If ever I left you. 

Even in dreams, it was some demon dragged me, 

And with fierce struggles I awaked myself. 

Fed ALMA. 

It is a hateful dream, and when it comes, — 

I mean, when in my waking hours there comes 

That longing to be free, I am afraid : 

I run down to my chamber, plait my hair, 

Weave colors in it, lay out all my gauds. 

And in my mind make new ones prettier. 

You see I have two minds, and both are foolish. 

Sometimes a torrent rushing through my soul 

Escapes in wild strange wishes ; presently. 

It dwindles to a little babbling rill 

And plays among the pebbles and the flowers. 

Inez will have it I lack broidery, 

Says naught else gives content to noble maids. 

But I have never broidered, — never will. 

No, when I am a Duchess and a wife 

I shall ride forth — may I not ? — by your side. 

Don Silva. 

Yes, you shall ride upon a palfrey, black 
To match Bavieca. Not Queen Isabel 
Will be a sight more gladdening to men's eyes 
Than my dark queen Fedalma. 



100 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Fed ALMA. 

Ah, but you, 
You are my king, and I shall tremble still 
With some great fear that throbs within my love. 
Does your love fear ? 

Don Silva. 

Ah, yes ! all preciousness 
To mortal hearts is guarded by a fear. 
All love fears loss, and most that loss supreme, 
Its own perfection, — seeing, feeling change 
From high to lower, dearer to less dear. 
Can love be careless ? If we lost our love 
What should we find ? — with this sweet Past torn off, 
Our lives deep scarred just where their beauty lay ? 
The best we found thenceforth were still a worse : 
The only better is a Past that lives 
On through an added Present, stretching still 
In hope unchecked by shaming memories 
To life's last breath. And so I tremble too 
Before my queen Fedalma. 

Fed ALMA. 

That is just. 
'T were hard of Love to make us women fear 
And leave you bold. Yet Love is not quite even. 
For feeble creatures, little birds and fawns, 
Are shaken more by fear, while large strong things 
Can bear it stoutly. So we women still 
Are not well dealt with. Yet would I choose to be 
Fedalma loving Silva. You, my lord. 
Hold the worse share, since you must love poor me. 
But is it what we love, or how we love. 
That makes true good ? 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 101 

Don Silva. 

O subtlety ! for me 
'T is what I love determines how I love. 
The goddess with pure rites reveals herself 
And makes pure worship. 

Fedalma. 

Do you worship me ? 
Don Silva. 
Ay, with that best of worship which adores 
Goodness adorable. 

Fedalma (archly). 

Goodness obedient, 
Doing your will, devoutest worshipper ? 

Don Silva. 
Yes, — listening to this prayer. This very night 
I shall go forth. And you will rise with day 
And wait for me ? 

Fedalma. 

Yes. 
Don Silva. 

I shall surely come. 
Ajid then we shall be married. Now I go 
To audience fixed in Abderahman's tower. 
Farewell, love ! {They embrace.) 

Fedalma. 
Some chill dread possesses me ! 

Don Silva. 

Oh, confidence has oft been evil augury. 

So dread may hold a promise. Sweet, farewell ! 



102 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

I shall send tendance as I pass, to bear 

This casket to your chamber. — One more kiss. 

{Exit) 

Fedalma (ichen Don Silva is gone, returning to the 
casket, and looking dreamily at the jewels). 

Yes, now that good seems less impossible ! 
Kow it seems true that I shall be his wife, 
Be ever by his side, and make a part 

In all his purposes 

These rubies greet me Duchess. How they glow ! 

Their prisoned souls are throbbing like my own. 

Perchance they loved once, were ambitious, proud ; 

Or do they only dream of wider life, 

Ache from intenseness, yearn to burst the wall 

Compact of crystal splendor, and to flood 

Some wider space with glory ? Poor, poor gems ! 

We must be patient in our prison-house. 

And find our space in loving. Pray you, love me. 

Let us be glad together. And you, gold, — 

{She takes up the gold necklace.) 
You wondrous necklace, — will you love me too, 
And be my amulet to keep me safe 
Prom eyes that hurt ? 

{She spreads out the necklace, meaning to clasp 
it on her neck. Then pauses, startled, hold- 
ing it before her.) 

Why, it is magical ! 
He says he never wore it, — yet these lines, — 
Nay, if he had, I should remember well 
'T was he, no other. And these twisted lines, — 
They seem to speak to me as writing would. 
To bring a message from the dead, dead past. 
What is their secret ? Are Ihey characters ? 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 103 

I never learned tliem ; yet they stir some sense 

That once I dreamed, — I have forgotten what. 

Or was it life ? Perhaps I lived before 

In some strange world where first my soul was shaped. 

And all this passionate love, and joy, and pain, 

That come, I know not whence, and sway my deeds, 

Are dim yet mastering memories, blind yet strong, 

That this world stirs within me ; as this chain 

Stirs some strange certainty of visions gone. 

And all my mind is as an eye that stares 

Into the darkness painfully. 

( While Fedalma has been looking at the necklace^ 
Juan has entered, and finding himself unob- 
served by her, saijs at last,) 
Senora ! 

Fedalma starts, and gathering the necklace together 
turns round — 

Juan, it is you ! 

Juan. 
I met the Duke, — 
Had Avaited long without, no matter why, — 
And when he ordered one to wait on you 
And carry forth a burden you would give, 

1 prayed for leave to be the servitor. 
Don Silva owes me twenty granted wishes 
That I have never tendered, lacking aught 
That I could wish for and a Duke could grant ; 
But this one wish to serve you, weighs as much 
As twenty other longings. 

Fedalma {smiling). 

That sounds well. 
You turn your speeches prettily as songs. 



104 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

But I will not forget the many days 
You have neglected me. Your pupil learns 
But little from you now. Her studies flag. 
The Duke says, " That is idle Juan's way : 
Poets must rove, — are honey-sucking birds 
And know not constancy." Said he quite true ? 

Juan. 
O lady, constancy has kind and rank. 
One man's is lordly, plump, and bravely clad. 
Holds its head high, and tells the world its name ; 
Another man's is beggared, must go bare. 
And shiver through the world, the jest of all, 
But that it puts the motley on, and plays 
Itself the jester. But I see you hold 
The Gypsy's necklace : it is quaintly wrought. 

Fedalma. 
The Gypsy's ? Do you know its history ? 

Juan. 

No further back than when I saw it taken 
From off its wearer's neck, — the Gypsy chief's. 

Fedalma (eagerly). 
What ! he who paused, at tolling of the bell, 
Before me in the Pla9a ? 

Juan. 

Yes, I saw 
His look fixed on you. 

Fedalma. 

Know you aught of him ? 

Juan. 
Something and nothing, — as I know the sky. 
Or some great story of the olden time 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 105 

That hides a secret. I have oft talked with him. 
He seems to say much, yet is but a wizard 
Who draws down rain by sprinkling ; throws me out 
Some pregnant text that urges comment ; casts 
A sharp-hooked question, baited with such skill 
It needs must catch the answer. 

Fed ALMA. 

It is hard 
That such a man should be a prisoner, — 
Be chained to work. 

Juan. 

Oh, he is dangerous ! 
Granada with this Zarca for a king 
Might still maim Christendom. He is of those 
Who steal the keys from snoring Destiny 
And make the prophets lie. A Gypsy, too, 
Suckled by hunted beasts, whose mother-milk 
Has filled his veins with hate. 

Fed alma. 

I thought his eyes 
Spoke not of hatred, — seemed to say he bore 
The pain of those who never could be saved. 
What if the Gypsies are but savage beasts 
And must be hunted ? — let them be set free, 
Have benefit of chase, or stand at bay 
And fight for life and offspring. Prisoners ! 
Oh, they have made their fires beside the streams. 
Their walls have been the rocks, the pillared pines. 
Their roof the living sky that breathes with light : 
They may well hate a cage, like strong-winged birds. 
Like me, who have no wings, but only wishes. 
I will beseech the Duke to set them free. 



106 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Juan. 

Pardon me, lady, if I seem to warn, 

Or try to play the sage. What if the Duke 

Loved not to hear of Gypsies ? if their name 

Were poisoned for him once, being used amiss ? 

I speak not as of fact. Our niniLle souls 

Can spin an insubstantial universe 

Sviiting our mood, and call it possible, 

Sooner than see one grain with eye exact 

And give strict record of it. Yet by chance 

Our fancies may be truth and make us seers. 

'T is a rare teeming world, so harvest-full, 

Even guessing ignorance may pluck some fruit. 

Note what I say no further than will stead 

The siege you lay. I would not seem to tell 

Aught that the Duke may think and yet withhold : 

It were a trespass in me. 

Fed ALMA, 

Fear not, Juan. 
Your words bring daylight with them when you speak. 
I understand your care. But I am brave, — 
Oh, and so cunning ! — always I prevail. 
Now, honored Troubadour, if you will be 
Your pupil's servant, bear this casket hence. 
Nay, not the necklace : it is hard to place. 
Pray go before me ; Inez will be there. 

{Exit Juan with the casket. ) 

Fedalma {looking again at the necklace). 

It is his past clings to you, not my own. 
If we have each our angels, good and bad. 
Fates, separate from ourselves, who act for us 
When we are blind, or sleep, then this man's fate, 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 107 

Hovering about the thing he used to wear, 

Has laid its grasp on mine aj)pealingiy. 

Dangerous, is he ? — well, a Spanish knight 

Would have his enemy strong, — defy, not bind him. 

I can dare all things when my soul is moved 

By something hidden that possesses me. 

If Silva said this man must keep his chains 

I should find ways to free him, — disobey 

And free him as I did the birds. But no ! 

As soon as we are wed, I '11 put my prayer, 

And he will not deny me : he is good. 

Oh, I shall have much power as well as joy ! 

Duchess Fedalma may do what she will. 



A Street by the Castle. Juan leans against a parapet, in 
moonlight, and touches his lute half unconsciously. 
Pepita stands on tiptoe watching him, and then ad- 
vances till her shadow falls in front of him. He 
looks towards her. A piece of white drapery thrown 
over her head catches the moonlight. 

Juan. 
Ha ! my Pepita ! see how thin and long 
Your shadow is. 'T is so your ghost will be, 
When you are dead. 

Pepita {crossing herself). 

Dead ! — Oh the blessed saints ! 
You would be glad, then, if Pepita died ? 

Juan. 

Glad ! why ? Dead maidens are not merry. Ghosts 
Are doleful company. I like you living. 



108 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Pepita. 

I think yoii like me not. I wish you did. 
Sometimes you sing to me and make me dance. 
Another time you take no heed of me, 
Not though I kiss my hand to you and smile. 
But Andres would be glad if I kissed him. 

Juan. 

My poor Pepita, I am old. 

Pepita. 

No, no. 



You have no wrinkles. 



Juan. 



Yes, I have — within ; 
The wrinkles are within, my little bird. 
Why, I have lived through twice a thousand years. 
And kept the company of men whose bones 
Crumbled before the blessed Virgin lived. 

Pepita {crossing herself). 

Nay, God defend us, that is wicked talk ! 

You say it but to scorn me. ( With a sob.) I will go. 

Juan. 

Stay, little pigeon. I am not unkind. 

Come, sit upon the wall. Nay, never cry. 

Give me your cheek to kiss. There, cry no more ! 

(Pepita, sitting on the low parapet, puts up her 
cheek to Juan, who kisses it, putting his 
hand under her chin. She takes his hand 
and kisses it.) 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 109 



Pepita. 



I like to kiss your hand. It is so good, — 
So smooth and soft. 

Juan. 
Well, well, I '11 sing to you. 

Pepita. 
A pretty song, loving and merry ? 

Juan. 



(Juan sings.) 



Yes. 



Tell to me 
What is fair, 
Past compare, 

In the land of Tubal ? 

Is it Springes 
Lovely things, 
Blossoms white. 
Rosy dight ? 

Then it is Pepita. 

SuTYimer's crest 
Red-gold tressed, 

Corn-flowers peeping under ? — 
Idle noons, 
Lingering moons, 
Sudden cloud. 
Lightning'' s shroud, 
Sudden rain, 
Quick again 

Smiles where late was thunder ? ■ 



110 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Are all these 
Made to please ? 
So too is PepUa. 

Autumn's prime, 
Apple-tim,e, 
Smooth cheeh round, 
Heart all sound? — 
Is it this 
You would kiss ? 
Then it is Pepita. 

You can bring 
No siveet thing, 
But my mind 
Still shall find 
It is my Pepita. 

Memory 
Says to me 
It is she, — 
She is fair 
Past compare 

In the land of Tiibal. 

Pepita {seizing Juan's hand again). 
Oh, then, you do love me ? 

Juan. 

Yes, in the song. 

Pepita (sadly). 
Not out of it ? — not love me out of it ? 

Juan. 
Only a little out of it, my bird. 
When I was singing I was Andres, say, 
Or one who loves you better still than Andres. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. Ill 

Pepita. 

Not yourself ? 

JtTA]sr. 

No! 

Pepita (throiving his hand down pettishly). 

Then take it back again ! 
I will not have it ! 

Juan. 

Listen, little one. 
Juan is not a living man all by himself : 
His life is breathed in him by other men, 
And they speak out of him. He is their voice. 
Juan's own life he gave once quite away. 
It was Pepita's lover singing then, — not Juan. 
We old, old poets, if we kept our hearts. 
Should hardly know them from another man's. 
They shrink to make room for the many more 
We keep within us. There, now, — one more kiss, 
And then go home again. 

Pepita {a little frightened, after letting Juan kiss her). 
You are not wicked ? 

JuAisr. 
Ask your confessor, — tell him what I said. 

(Pepita goes, while Juan thrums his lute again, 
and sings.) 

Came a pretty maid 

By the moon^s pure light. 
Loved me ivell, she said, 

Eyes with tears all bright, 
A pretty maid ! 



112 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

But too late she strayed, 
Moonlight pure was there ; 

She was naught but shade 
Hiding the more fair, 

The heavenly maid ! 



vaulted room all stone. The light shed from a high 
lamp. Wooden chairs, a desk, hook-shelves. The 
Prior, in ivhite frock, a black rosary with a cruci- 
fix of ebony and ivory at his side, is walking up and 
down, holding a xvritten paper in his hands, which 
are clasped behind him. 

What if this witness lies ? he says he heard her 

Counting her blasphemies on a rosary, 

And in a bold discourse with Salomo, 

Say that the Host was naught but ill-inixed flour, 

That it was mean to pray, — she never prayed. 

I know the man who wrote this for a cur, 

Who follows Don Diego, sees life's good 

In scraps my nephew flings to him. What then ? 

Particular lies may speak a general truth. 

I guess him false, but know her heretic, — 

Know her for Satan's instrument, bedecked 

With heathenish charms, luring the souls of men 

To damning trust in good unsanctified. 

Let her be prisoned, — questioned, — she will give 

Witness against herself, that were this false .... 

{He looks at the paper again and reads, then 
again thrusts it behind him.) 
The matter and the color are not false : 
The form concerns the witness, not the judge ; 
For proof is gathered by the sifting mind. 
Not given in crude and formal circumstance. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 113 

Suspicion is a lieaven-sent lamp, and I, — 

I, watchman of the Holy Office, bear 

That lamp in trust. I will keep faithful watch. 

The Holy Inquisition's discipline 

Is mercy, saving her, if penitent, — 

God grant it ! — else, — root up the poison-plant. 

Though 't were a lily with a golden heart ! 

This spotless maiden with her pagan soul 

Is the arch-enemy's trap : he turns his back 

On all the prostitutes, and watches her 

To see her poison men with false belief 

In rebel virtues. She has poisoned Silva ; 

His shifting mind, dangerous in fitfulness. 

Strong in the contradiction of itself. 

Carries his young ambitions wearily, 

As holy vows regretted. Once he seemed 

The fresh-oped flower of Christian knighthood, born 

For feats of holy daring ; and I said : 

" That half of life which I, as monk, renounce. 

Shall be fulfilled in him : Silva will be 

That saintly noble, that wise warrior. 

That blameless excellence in worldly gifts 

I would have been, had I not asked to live 

The higher life of man impersonal 

Who reigns o'er all things by refusing all. 

What is his promise now ? Apostasy 

From every high intent: — languid, nay, gone. 

The prompt devoutness of a generous heart, 

The strong obedience of a reverent will. 

That breathes the Church's air and sees her light, 

He peers and strains with feeble questioning. 

Or else he jests. He thinks I know it not, — 

I who have read the history of his lapse. 

As clear as it is writ in the angel's book. 

He will defy me, — flings great words at me, — 



114 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Me who have governed all our house's acts, 

Since I, a stripling, ruled his stripling father. 

This maiden is the cause, and if they wed, 

The Holy War may count a captain lost. 

For better he were dead than keep his place, 

And fill it infamously : in God's war 

Slackness is infamy. Shall I stand by 

And let the tempter win ? defraud Christ's cause, 

And blot his banner ? — all for scruples weak 

Of pity towards their young and frolicsome blood ; 

Or nice discrimination of the tool 

By which my hand shall work a sacred rescue ? 

The fence of rules is for the purblind crowd ; 

They walk by averaged precepts ; sovereign men, 

Seeing by God's light, see the general 

By seeing all the special, — own no rule 

But their full vision of the moment's worth. 

'T is so God governs, using wicked men, — 

Nay, scheming fiends, to work his purposes. 

Evil that good may come ? Measure the good 

Before you say what 's evil. Perjury ? 

I scorn the perjurer, but I will use him 

To serve the holy truth. There is no lie 

Save in his soul, and let his soul be judged. 

I know the truth, and act upon the truth. 

God, thou knowest that my will is pure. 

Thy servant owns naught for himself, his wealth 

Is but obedience. And I have sinned 

In keeping small respects of human love, — 

Calling it mercy. Mercy ? Where evil is 

True mercy must be terrible. Mercy would save. 

Save whom ? Save serpents, locusts, wolves ? 

Or out of pity let the idiots gorge 

Within a famished town ? Or save the gains 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 115 

Of men who trade in poison lest they starve ? 

Save all things mean and foul that clog the earth 

Stifling the better ? Save the fools who cling 

For refuge round their hideous idol's limbs, 

So leave the idol grinning unconsumed, 

And save the fools to breed idolaters ? 

Oh mercy worthy of the licking hound 

That knows no future but its feeding time ! 

Mercy has eyes that pierce the ages, — sees 

From heights divine of the eternal purpose 

Far-scattered consequence in its vast sum ; 

Chooses to save, but with illumined vision 

Sees that to save is greatly to destroy. 

'T is so the Holy Inquisition sees : its wrath 

Is fed from the strong heart of wisest love. 

For love must needs make hatred. He who loves 

God and his law must hate the foes of God. 

And I have sinned in being merciful : 

Being slack in hate, I have been slack in love. 

(^He takes the crucifix and holds it up before him.) 
Thou shuddering, bleeding, thirsting, dying God, 
Thou Man of Sorrows, scourged and bruised and torn, 
Suffering to save, — wilt thou not judge the world ? 
This arm which held the children, this pale hand 
That gently touched the eyelids of the blind, 
And opened passive to the cruel nail. 
Shall one day stretch to leftward of thy throne, 
Charged with the power that makes the lightning strong, 
And hurl thy foes to everlasting hell. 
And thou, Immaculate Mother, Virgin mild. 
Thou sevenfold-pierced, thou pitying, pleading Queen, 
Shalt see and smile, while the black filthy souls 
Sink Avith foul weight to their eternal place, 
Purging the Holy Light. Yea, I have sinned 
And called it mercy. But I shrink no more. 



116 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

To-morrow morn tliis temptress shall be safe 
Under the Holy Inquisition's key. 
He thinks to wed her, and defy me then, 
She being shielded by our house's name. 
But he shall never wed her. I have said. 

The time is come. Exurge, Domine, 
Judica causam tuam. Let thy foes 
Be driven as the smoke before the wind. 
And melt like wax upon the furnace lip ! 



large chamber richly furnished opening on a terrace- 
garden, the trees visible through the window in faint 
moonlight. Flowers hanging about the window, lit up 
by the tapers. The casket of jewels open on a table. 
The gold necklace lying near. Fedalma, splendidly 
dressed and adorned with pjearls and r%d)ies, is walk- 
ing up and down. 

So soft a night was never made for sleep, 

But for the waking of the finer sense 

To every murmuring and gentle sound, 

To subtlest odors, pulses, visitings 

That touch our frames with wings too delicate 

To be discerned amid the blare of day. 

{SJie pauses near the windoiv to gather some jas- 
mine : then walks again.) 
Surely these flowers keep happy watch, — their breath 
Is their fond memory of the loving light. 
I often rue the hours I lose in sleep : 
It is a bliss too brief, only to see 
This glorious world, to hear the voice of love, 
To feel the touch, the breath of tenderness, 
And then to rest as from a spectacle. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 117 

I need the curtained stillness of the night 
To live through all my happy hours again 
With more selection, — cull them quite away 
From blemished moments. Then in loneliness 
The face that bent before me in the day 
Rises in its own light, more vivid seems 
Painted upon the dark, and ceaseless glows 
With sweet solemnity of gazing love, 

• Till like the heavenly blue it seems to grow 
Nearer, more kindred, and more cherishing. 
Mingling with all my being. Then the words, 
The tender low-toned words come back again, 
With repetition welcome as the chime 
Of softly hurrying brooks, — " My only love, — 

My love while life shall last, — my own Fedalma ! " 
Oh, it is mine, — the joy that once has been ! 

Poor eager hope is but a stammerer. 
Must listen dumbly to great memory. 

Who makes our bliss the sweeter by her telling. 

(She pauses a moment Tnusingly.) 

But that dumb hope is still a sleeping guard 

Whose quiet rhythmic breath saves me from dread 

In this fair paradise. For if the earth 

Broke off with flower-fringed edge, visibly sheer, 

Leaving no footing for my forward step 

But empty blackness .... 

Nay, there is no fear, — 

They will renew themselves, day and my joy, 

And all that past which is securely mine, 

Will be the hidden root that nourishes 

Our still unfolding, ever-ripening love ! 

( While she is uttering the last words, a little bird 
falls softly on the floor behind her ; she hears 
the light sound of its fall and turns round.) 



118 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Did something enter ? . . . . 

Yes, this little bird .... 
{She lifts it.) 
Dead and yet warm : 't was seeking sanctuary, 
And died, perhaps of fright, at the altar foot. 
Stay, there is something tied beneath the wing ! 
A strip of linen, streaked with blood, — what blood ? 
The streaks are written words, — are sent to me, — 

God, are sent to me ! Dear child, Fedalma, 
Be Irrave, give no alarm, — your Father comes / 

(She lets the bird fall again.) 

My Father .... comes .... my Father 

(^She turns in quivering expectation toward the 
window. There is perfect stillness a few mo- 
ments until Zakca appears at the window. 
He enters quickly and twiselessly; then .stands 
still at his full height, and at a distance from. 
Fedalma.) 

Fedalma (wi a low distinct tone of terror). 

It is he ! 

1 said his fate had laid its hold on mine. 

Zarga (advancing a step or two). 
You know, then, who I am ? 

Fedalma. 

The prisoner, — 
He whom I saw in fetters, — and this necklace — 

Zakca. 

Was played with by your fingers when it hung 
About my neck, full fifteen years ago ! 

Fedalma (starts, looks at the necklace and handles 

it, then speaks as if unconsciously). 
Full fifteen years ago ! 




My Father .... comes .... my Father." 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 119 

Zarca. 

The very day 
I lost you, when you wore a tiny gown 
Of scarlet cloth Avith golden broidery : 
'T was clasped in front by coins, — two golden coins. 
The one towards the left was split in two 
Across the King's head, right from brow to nape, 
A dent i' the middle nicking in the cheek. 
You see I know the little gown by heart. 

Fedalma {growing paler arid more tremulous). 
Yes. It is true, — I have the gown, — the clasps, — 
The braid, — sore tarnished : — it is long ago ! 

Zakca. 
But yesterday to me ; for till to-day 
I saw you always as that little child. 
And when they took my necklace from me, still 
Your fingers played about it on my neck, 
And still those buds of fingers on your feet 
Caught in its meshes as you seemed to climb 
Up to my shoulder. You were not stolen all. 

You had a double life fed from my heart 

(Fedalma, letting fall the necklace, mo.kes on 
impulsive movement towards him with out- 
stretched hands.) 
For the Zincalo loves his children well. 

Fedalma {shrinking, tremhling, and letting fall lier 

hands). 
How came it that you sought me, — no, — I mean 
How came it that you knew me, — that you lost me ? 

Zarca (standing perfectlij still). 
Poor child ! I see, I see, — your ragged father 
Is welcome as the piercing wintry wind 



120 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Witliin this silken chamber. It is welL 

I would not have a child who stooped to feign, 

And aped a sudden love. True hate were better. 

Fedalma (raising her eyes towards him, with a flash 
of admiration, and looking at him flxedlij). 
Father, how was it that we lost each other ? 

Zakca. 
I lost you as a man may lose a diamond 
Wherein he has compressed his total wealth, 
Or the right hand whose cunning makes him great : 
I lost you by a trivial accident. 
Marauding Spaniards, sweeping like a storm 
Over a spot within the Moorish bounds, 
Near where our camp lay, doubtless snatched you up, 
When Zind, your nurse, as she confessed, was urged 
By burning thirst to wander towards the stream. 
And leave you on the sand some paces off 
Playing with pebbles, while she dog-like lapped. 
'T was so I lost you, — never saw you more 
Until to-day I saw you dancing! Saw 
The child of the Zincalo making sport 
For those who spit upon her people's name. 

Fedalma (^vehemently). 

It was not sport. What if the world looked on ? — 
I danced for joy, — for love of all the world. 
But when you looked at me my joy was stabbed, — 
Stabbed with your pain. I wondered .... now I 

know .... 
It was my father's pain. 

{She pauses a moment xoith eyes hent doumward, 
during which Zarca examines her face. Then 
she says quickly,) 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 121 

How were you sure 
At once I was your child ? 

Zakca. 

Oh, I had witness strong 
As any Cadi needs, before I saw you ! 
I fitted all my memories with the chat 
Of one named Juan, — one whose rapid talk 
Showers like the blossoms from a light-twigged shrub, 
If you but coughed beside it. I learned all 
The story of your Spanish nurture, — all 
The promise of your fortune. When at last 
I fronted you, my little maid full-grown, 
Belief was turned to vision : then I saw 
That she whom Spaniards called the bright Fedalma, — 
The little red-frocked foundling three years old, — 
Grown to such perfectness the Christian Duke 
Had wooed her for his Duchess, — was the child, 
Sole offspring of my flesh, that Larabra bore 
One hour before the Christian, hunting us, 
Hurried her on to death. Therefore I sought you. 
Therefore I come to claim you — claim my child, 
Not from the Spaniard, not from him who robbed. 
But from herself. 

(Fedalma has cjradually approached close to Zakca, 
and with a low sob sinks on her knees before 
him. He stoops to kiss her brow, and lays his 
hands on her head.) 

Zabca (with solemn tenderness). 
Then my child owns her father ? 

Fedalma. 

Father ! yes. 
I will eat dust before I will deny 
The flesh I spring from. 



122 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Zarca. 

There my daughter spoke. 
Away then with these rubies ! 

(He seizes the circlet of rubies and flings it on the 
ground. Fed alma, starting from the ground 
with strong emotion, shrinks backward.) 
Such a crown 
Is infamy on a Zincala's brow. 
It is her people's blood, decking her shame. 

Fedalma (after a moment, slowly and distinctly, as if 

accepting a doom). 
Then .... I am .... a Zincala ? 

Zarca. 

Of a blood 
Unmixed as virgin wine-juice. 

Fedalma. 

Of a race 
More outcast and despised than Moor or Jew ? 

Zarca. 
Yes : wanderers whom no god took knowledge of 
To give them laws, to fight for them, or blight 
Another race to make them ampler room ; 
A people with no home even in memory, 
No dimmest lore of giant ancestors 
To make a common hearth for piety. 

Fedalma. 
A race that lives on prey as foxes do 
With stealthy, petty rapine : so despised, 
It is not persecuted, only spurned. 
Crushed underfoot, warred on by chance like rats. 
Or swarming flies, or reptiles of the sea 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 123 

Dragged in the net unsought, and flung far off 
To perish as they may ? 

Zarca. 

You paint us well. 
So abject are the men whose blood we share ; 
Untutored, unbefriended, unendowed ; 
No favorites of heaven or of men. 
Therefore I cling to them ! Therefore no lure 
Shall draw me to disown them, or forsake 
The meagre wandering herd that lows for help 
And needs me for its guide, to seek my pasture 
Among the well-fed beeves that graze at will. 
Because our race have no great memories, 
I will so live they shall remember me 
For deeds of such divine beneficence 
As rivers have, that teach men what is good 
By blessing them. I have been schooled, — have caught 
Lore from the Hebrew, deftness from the Moor, — 
Know the rich heritage, the milder life, 
Of nations fathered by a mighty Past ; 
But were our race accursed (as they who make 
Good luck a god count all unlucky men) 
I would espouse their curse sooner than take 
My gifts from brethren naked of all good. 
And lend them to the rich for usury. 

(Eedalma again advances, and putting forth her 
right hand grasps Zarca's left. He places his 
other hand on her shoulder. They stand so, 
looking at each other.) 

Zarca. 

And you, my child ? are you of other mind, 
Choosing forgetfulness, hating the truth 
That says you are akin to needy men ? — 



124 



POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 



AVishing your father were some Christian Duke, 
Who could hang Gypsies when their task was done, 
While you, his daughter, were not bound to care ? 

Fed ALMA (in a troubled, eager voice). 
No, I should always care — I cared for you — 
For all, before I dreamed .... 

Zarca. 

Before you dreamed 
You were a born Zincala, — in the bonds 
Of the Zincali's faith. 

Fedalma {Utterly'). 

Zincali's faith ? 
Men say they have none. 

Zakca. 

Oh, it is a faith 
Taught by no priest, but by their beating hearts. 
Faith to each other : the fidelity 
Of fellow-wanderers in a desert place 
Who share the same dire thirst, and therefore share 
The scanty water : the fidelity 
Of men whose pulses leap with kindred fire, 
Who in the flash of eyes, the clasp of hands. 
The speech that even in lying tells the truth 
Of heritage inevitable as past deeds, 
Nay, in the silent bodily presence feel 
The mystic stirring of a common life 
Which makes the many one : fidelity 
To that deep consecrating oath our sponsor Fate 
Made through our infant breath when we were born. 
The fellow-heirs of that small island. Life, 
Where we must dig and sow and reap with brothers. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 125 

Fear thou that oath, my daughter, — nay, not fear, 

But love it ; for the sanctity of oaths 

Lies not in lightning that avenges them, 

But in the injury wrought by broken bonds 

And in the garnered good of human trust. 

And you have sworn, — even with your infant breath 

You too were pledged .... 

Fedai.ma (lets go Zakca's hand and sinks backward 
on her knees, with bent head, as if before some im- 
pending crushing weight). 

What have I sworn ? 
Zarca. 
To live the life of the Zincala's child : 
The child of him who, being chief, will be 
The savior of his tribe, or if he fail 
Will choose to fail rather than basely win 
The prize of renegades. Nay — will not choose — 
Is there a choice for strong souls to be weak ? 
For men erect to crawl like hissing snakes ? 
I choose not, — I am Zarca. Let him choose 
Who halts and wavers, having appetite 
To feed on garbage. You, my child, — are you 
Halting and wavering ? 

Fedalma (raising her head). 

Say what is my task ? 

Zarca, 
To be the angel of a homeless tribe : 
To help me bless a race taught by no prophet, 
And make their name, now but a badge of scorn, 
A glorious banner floating in their midst, 
Stirring the air they breathe with impulses 
Of generous pride, exalting fellowship 



126 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Until it soars to magnanimity. 

I '11 guide my brethren forth to their new land, 

Where they shall plant and sow and reap their own, 

Serving each other's needs, and so be spurred 

To skill in all the arts that succor life ; 

Where we may kindle our first altar-fire 

From settled hearths, and call our Holy Place 

The hearth that binds us in one family. 

That land awaits them : they await their chief, — 

Me who am prisoned. All depends on you. 

Fed ALMA (rising to her full height, and looking sol- 
emnly at Zarca). 

Father, your child is ready ! She will not 

Forsake her kindred : she will brave all scorn 

Sooner than scorn herself. Let Spaniards all. 

Christians, Jews, Moors, shoot out the lip and say, 

" Lo, the first hero in a tribe of thieves." 

Is it not written so of them ? They, too, 

Were slaves, lost, wandering, sunk beneath a curse. 

Till Moses, Christ, and Mahomet were born, 

Till beings lonely in their greatness lived. 

And lived to save their people. Father, listen. 

To-morrow the Duke weds me secretly : 

But straight he will present me as his wife 

To all his household, cavaliers and dames 

And noble pages. Then I will declare 

Before them all : " I am his daughter, his, 

The Gypsy's, owner of this golden badge." 

Then I shall win your freedom ; then the Duke, — 

Why, he will be your son ! — will send you forth 

With aid and honors. Then, before all eyes 

I '11 clasp this badge on you, and lift my brow 

For you to kiss it, saying by that sign, 

" I glory in my father." This, to-morrow. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 127 

Zarca. 

A woman's dream, — who thinks by smiling well 
To ripen figs in frost. What ! marry first, 
And then proclaim your birth ? Enslave yourself 
To use your freedom ? Share another's name, 
Then treat it as you will ? How will that tune 
King in your bridegroom's ears, — that sudden song 
Of triumph in your Gypsy father ? 

Fedalma (discouraged). 

Nay, 
I meant not so. We marry hastily — 
Yet there is time — there will be : — in less space 
Than he can take to look at me, I '11 speak 
And tell him all. Oh, I am not afraid ! 
His love for me is stronger than all hate ; 
Nay, stronger than my love, which cannot sway 
Demons that haunt me, — tempt me to rebel. 
Were he Fedalma and I Silva, he 
Could love confession, prayers, and tonsured monks 
If my soul craved them. He will never hate 
The race that bore him what he loves the most. 
I shall but do more strongly what I will. 
Having his will to help me. And to-morrow, 
Father, as surely as this heart shall beat, 
You, every chained Zincalo, shall be free. 

Zarca {coming nearer to her, and laying his hand on 
her shoulder). 

Too late, too poor a service that, my child ! 

Not so the woman who would save her tribe 

Must help its heroes, — not by wordy breath, 

By easy prayers strong in a lover's ear, 

By showering wreaths and sweets and wafted kisses, 

And then, when all the smiling work is done, 



128 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Turning to rest upon her down again, 

And whisper languid pity for her race 

Upon the bosom of her alien spouse. 

Not to such petty mercies as can fall 

'Twixt stitch and stitch of silken broidery work, 

Such mirjicles of mitred saints who pause 

Beneath their gilded canopy to heal 

A man sun-stricken : not to such trim merit 

As soils its dainty shoes for charity 

And simpers meekly at the pious stain, 

But never trod with naked bleeding feet 

Where no man praised it, and where no Church blessed 

Not to such almsdeeds fit for holidays 

Were you, my daughter, consecrated, — bound 

By laws that, breaking, you will dip your bread 

In murdered brother's blood and call it sweet, — 

When you were born in the Zincalo's tent. 

And lifted up in sight of all your tribe, 

Who greeted you with shouts of loyal joy. 

Sole offspring of the chief in whom they trust 

As in the oft-tried never-failing flint 

They strike their fire from. Other work is yours. 

Fedalma. 
What work ? — what is it that you ask of me ? 

Zarca. 
A work as pregnant as the act of men 
Who set their ships aflame and spring to land, 
A fatal deed .... 

Fedalma. 
Stay ! never utter it ! 
If it can part my lot from his whose love 
Has chosen me. Talk not of oaths, of birth, 
Of men as numerous as the dim white stars, — 
As cold and distant, too, for my heart's pulse. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 129 

Xo ills on earth, though you should count them up 
With grains to make a mountain, can outweigh 
For me, his ill who is my supreme love. 
All sorrows else are but imagined flames, 
Making me shudder at an unfelt smart, 
But his imagined sorrow is a fire 
That scorches me. 

Zarca. 

I know, I know it well, — 
The first you"ng passionate wail of spirits called 
To some great destiny. In vain, my daughter ! 
Lay the young eagle in what nest you will. 
The cry and swoop of eagles overhead 
Vibrate prophetic in its kindred frame, 
And make it spread its wings and poise itself 
For the eagle's flight. Hear what you have to do. 
, (Fed ALMA breaks from him and stands half averted, 

as if she dreaded the effect of his looks and 

words.) 
My comrades even now file off their chains 
In a low turret by the battlements, 
Where we were locked with slight and sleepy guard, — 
We who had files hid in our shaggy hair, 
And possible ropes that waited but our will 
In half our garments. Oh, the Moorish blood 
Runs thick and warm to us, though thinned by chrism. 
I found a friend among our jailers, — one 
Who loves the Gypsy as the Moor's ally. 
I know the secrets of this fortress. Listen. 
Hard by yon terrace is a narrow stair, 
Cut in the living rock, and at one point 
In its slow straggling course it branches off 
Towards a low wooden door, that art has bossed 
To such unevenness, it seems one piece 



130 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

With the rough-hewn rock. Opened, it leads 
Through a broad passage burrowed underground 
A good half-mile out to the open plain : 
Made for escape, in dire extremity 
From siege or burning, of the house's wealth 
In women or in gold. To find that door 
Needs one who knows the number of the steps 
Just to the turning-point ; to open it, 
Needs one who knows the secret of the bolt. 
You have that secret : you will ope that door. 
And fly with us. 

Fedalma {receding a little, and gathering herself up 
in an attitude of resolve opposite to Zarca). 
No, I will never fly ! 
Never forsake that chief half of my soul 
Where lies my love. I swear to set you free. 
Ask for no more ; it is not possible. 
Father, my soul is not too base to ring 
At touch of your great thoughts ; nay, in my blood 
There streams the sense unspeakable of kind, 
As leopard feels at ease with leopard. But, — 
Look at these hands ! You say when they were little 
They played about the gold upon your neck. 
I do believe it, for their tiny pulse 
Made record of it in the inmost coil 
Of growing memory. But see them now ! 
Oh they have made fresh record ; twined themselves 
With other throbbing hands whose pulses feed 
Not memories only but a blended life, — 
Life that will bleed to death if it be severed. 
Have pity on me, father ! Wait the morning ; 
Say you will wait the morning. I will win 
Your freedom openly : you shall go forth 
With aid and honors. Silva will deny 
Naught to my asking .... 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 131 

Zarca {with contemptuous decision). 

Till you ask him aught 
Wherein he is powerless. Soldiers even now 
Murmur against him that he risks the town, 
And forfeits all the prizes of a foray 
To get his bridal pleasure with a bride 
Too low for him. They '11 murmur more and louder 
If captives of our pith and sinew, fit 
Eor all the work the Spaniard hates, are freed, — 
Now, too, when Spanish hands are scanty. What, 
Turn Gypsies loose instead of hanging thein ! 
'T is flat against the edict. Nay, perchance 
Murmurs aloud may turn to silent threats 
Of some well-sharpened dagger ; for your Duke 
Has to his heir a pious cousin, who deems 
The Cross were better served if he were Duke. 
Such good you '11 work your lover by your prayers. 

Fed ALMA. 
Then, I will free you now ! You shall be safe, 
Nor he be blamed, save for his love to me. 
I will declare what I have done : the deed 
May put our marriage off 

Zarca. 

Ay, till the time 
When you shall be a queen in Africa, 
And he be prince enough to sue for you. 
You cannot free us and come back to him. 

Fed ALMA. 
And why ? 

Zarca. 
I would compel you to go forth. 

Fed ALMA. 
You tell me that ? 



132 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Zarca. 
Yes, for I 'd have you choose ; 
Though, being of the blood you are, — my blood, — 
You have no right to choose. 

Fed ALMA. 

I only owe 
A daughter's debt ; I was not born a slave. 

Zarca. 

No, not a slave ; but you were born to reign. 
'T is a compulsion of a higher sort. 
Whose fetters are the net invisible 
That holds all life together. Royal deeds 
May make long destinies for multitudes, 
And you are called to do them. You belong 
Not to the petty round of circumstance 
That makes a woman's lot, but to your tribe, 
Who trust in me and in my blood with trust 
That men call blind ; but it is only blind 
As unyeaned reason is, that growing stirs 
Within the womb of superstition. 

Fedalma. 

No! 
I belong to him who loves me — whom I love — 
Who chose me — whom I chose — to whom I pledged 
A woman's truth. And that is nature too, 
Issuing a fresher law than laws of birth. 

Zarca. 
Well, then, unmake yourself from a Zincala, — 
Unmake yourself from being child of mine ! 
Take holy water, cross your dark skin white ; 
Round your proud eyes to foolish kitten looks ; 
Walk mincingly, and smirk, and twitch your robe : 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 133 

Unmake yourself, — doff all the eagle plumes 
And be a parrot, chained to a ring that slips 
Upon a Spaniard's thumb, at will of his 
That you should prattle o'er his words again ! 
Get a small heart that flutters at the smiles 
Of that plump penitent and greedy saint 
Who breaks all treaties in the name of God, 
Saves souls by conliscation, sends to heaven 
The altar-fumes of burning heretics. 
And chaffers with the Levite for the gold ; 
Holds Gypsies beasts unfit for sacrifice, 
So sweeps them out like worms alive or dead. 
Go, trail your gold and velvet in her presence ! — 
Conscious Zincala, smile at your rare luck, 
While half your brethren .... 

Fedalma. 

I am not so vile ! 
It is not to such mockeries that I cling. 
Not to the flaring tow of gala-lights : 
It is to him — my love — the face of day. 

Zarca. 

What, will you part him from the air he breathes, 
Never inhale with him although you kiss him ? 
Will you adopt a soul without its thoughts. 
Or grasp a life apart from flesh and blood ? 
Till then you cannot wed a Spanish Duke 
And not wed shame at mention of your race, 
And not wed hardness to their miseries, — 
Nay, not wed murder. Would you save my life 
Yet stab my purpose ? maim my every limb. 
Put out my eyes, and turn me loose to feed ? 
Is that salvation ? rather drink my blood. 
That child of mine who weds my enemy, — 
Adores a God who took no heed of Gypsies, — 



134 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Forsakes her people, leaves tlieir poverty 

To join the luckier crowd that mocks their woes, — 

That child of mine is doubly murderess, 

Murdering her father's hope, her people's trust. 

Such draughts are mingled in your cup of love. 

And when you have become a thing so poor, 

Your life is all a fashion without law 

Save frail conjecture of a changing wish. 

Your worshipped sun, your smiling face of day, 

Will turn to cloudiness, and you will shiver 

In your thin finery of vain desire. 

Men call his passion madness ; and he, too. 

May learn to think it madness : 'tis a thought 

Of ducal sanity. 

Fedalma. 
No, he is true ! 
And if I part from him I part from joy. 
Oh, it was morning with us, — I seemed young. 
But now I know I am an aged sorrow, — 
My people's sorrow. Father, since I am yours, — 
Since I must walk an unslain sacrifice. 
Carrying the knife within me, quivering, — 
Put cords upon me, drag me to the doom 
My birth has laid upon me. See, I kneel : 
I cannot will to go. 

Zarca. 

Will then to stay ! 
Say you will take your better, painted such 
By blind desire, and choose the hideous worse 
For thousands who were happier but for you. 
My thirty followers are assembled now 
Without this terrace : I your father wait 
That you may lead us forth to liberty, — 
Eestore me to my tribe, — five hundred men 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 135 

Whom I alone can save, alone can rule, 

And plant them as a mighty nation's seed. 

Why, vagabonds who clustered round one man, 

Their voice of God, their prophet, and their king, 

Twice grew to empire on the teeming shores 

Of Africa, and sent new royalties 

To feed afresh the Arab sway in Spain. 

My vagabonds are a seed more generous, 

Quick as the serpent, loving as the hound, 

And beautiful as disinherited gods. 

They have a promised land beyond the sea : 

There I may lead them, raise my standard, call 

All wandering Zincali to that home. 

And make a nation, — bring light, order, law, 

Instead of chaos. You, my only heir, 

Are called to reign for me when I am gone. 

Now choose your deed : to save or to destroy. 

You, woman and Zincala, fortunate 

Above your fellows, — you who hold a curse 

Or blessing in the hollow of your hand, — 

Say you will loose that hand from fellowship, 

Let go the rescuing rope, hurl all the tribes, 

Children and countless beings yet to come, 

Down from the upward path of light and joy. 

Back to the dark and marshy wilderness 

Where life is naught but blind tenacity 

Of that which is. Say you will curse your race ! 

Feualma (^rising and stretching out her arms in 

deprecation). 
No, no, — I will not say it, — I will go ! 
Father, I choose ! I will not take a heaven 
Haunted by shrieks of far-off misery. 
This deed and I have ripened with the hours : 
It is a part of me, — a wakened thought 



136 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

That, rising like a giant, masters me. 
And grows into a doom. O mother life. 
That seemed to nourish me so tenderly, 
Even in the womb you vowed me to the fire, 
Hung on my soul the burden of men's hopes, 
And pledged me to redeem ! — I '11 pay the debt. 
You gave me strength that I should pour it all 
Into this anguish. I can never shrink 
Back into bliss, — my heart has grown too big 
With things that might be. Father, I will go. 
I will strip off these gems. Some happier bride 
Shall wear them, since Fedalma would be dowered 
With naught but curses, dowered with misery 
Of men, — of women, who have hearts to bleed 
As hers is bleeding. 

(^She sinks on a seat, and begins to take off her 
jewels.) 

Now, good gems, we part. 
Speak of me always tenderly to Silva. 

(^She paiises, turning to Zarca.) 
O father, will the women of our tribe 
Suffer as I do, in the years to come 
When you have made them great in Africa ? 
Redeemed from ignorant ills only to feel 
A conscious woe ? Then, — is it worth the pains ? 
Were it not better when we reach that shore 
To raise a funeral-pile and perish all ? 
So closing up a myriad avenues 
To misery yet unwrought ? My soul is faint, — 
Will these sharp pangs buy any certain good ? 

Zarca. 

Nay, never falter : no great deed is done 
By falterers who ask for certainty. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 137 

No good is certain, but the steadfast mind, 
The undivided will to seek the good : 
'T is that compels the elements, and wrings 
A human music from the indifferent air. 
The greatest gift the hero leaves his race 
Is to have been a hero. Say we fail ! — 
We feed the high tradition of the world. 
And leave our spirit in Zincalo breasts. 

Fed ALMA {unclasping her jetoelled belt, and throwing 
it down). 

Yes, say that we shall fail ! I will not count 
On aught but being faithful. I will take 
This yearning self of mine and strangle it. 
I will not be half-hearted : never yet 
Fedalma did aught with a wavering soul. 
Die, my young joy, — die, all my hungry hopes, — 
The milk you cry for from the breast of life 
Is thick with curses. Oh, all fatness here 
Snatches its meat from leanness, — feeds on graves. 
I will seek nothing but to shun what 's base. 
The saints were cowards who stood by to see 
Christ crucified : they should have flung themselves 
Upon the Roman spears, and died in vain, — 
The grandest death, to die in vain, — for love 
Greater than sways the forces of the world. 
That death shall be my bridegroom. I will wed 
The curse of the Zincali. Father, come ! 

Zarca. 

No curse has fallen on us till we cease 
To help each other. You, if you are false 
To that first fellowship, lay on the curse. 
But write now to the Spaniard : briefly say 
That I, your father, came ; that you obeyed 



138 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

The fate whicli made you a Zincala, as his fate 
Made him a Spanish duke and Christian knight. 
He must not think .... 

Fedalma. 

Yes, I will write, but he, — 
Oh, he would know it, — he would never think 
The chain that dragged me from him could be aught 
But scorching iron entering in my soul. 

{She wntes.) 
Silva, sole love, — he came, — my father came. 
I am the datighter of the Gypsy chief 
Who means to be the Savior of our tribe. 
He calls on me to live for his great end. 
To live ? nay, die for it. Fedalma dies 
In leaving Silva : all that lives henceforth 
Is the Zincala. (She rises.) 

Father, now I go 
To wed my people's lot. 

Zabca. 

To wed a crown. 
We will make royal the Zincali's lot, — 
Give it a country, homes, and monuments 
Held sacred through the lofty memories 
That we shall leave behind us. Come, my Queen ! 

Fedalma. 

Stay, my betrothal ring ! — one kiss, — farewell ! 
love, you were my crown. No other crown 
Is aught but thorns on my poor woman's broAV. 

(Uxetint.) 



BOOK 11. 

SILVA was marching homeward while the moon 
Still shed mild brightness like the far-off hope 
Of those pale virgin lives that wait and pray. 
The stars thin-scattered made the heavens large, 
Bending in slow procession ; in the east 
Emergent from the dark waves of the hills, 
Seeming a little sister of the moon, 
Glowed Venus all unquenched. Silva, in haste. 
Exultant and yet anxious, urged his troop 
To quick and quicker march : he had delight 
In forward stretching shadows, in the gleams 
That travelled on the armor of the van, 
And in the many-hoofed sound : in all that told 
Of hurrying movement to o'ertake his thought 
Already in Bedmar, close to Fedalma, 
Leading her forth a wedded bride, fast vowed. 
Defying Father Isidor. His glance 
Took in with much content the priest who rode 
Firm in his saddle, stalwart and broad-backed. 
Crisp-curled, and comfortably secular, 
Right in the front of him. But by degrees 
Stealthily faint, disturbing with slow loss 
That showed not yet full promise of a gain. 
The light was changing and the watch intense 
Of moon and stars seemed weary, shivering : 
The sharp white brightness passed from off the rocks 
Carrying the shadows : beauteous Night lay dead 
Under the pall of twilight, and the love-star 
Sickened and shrank. The troop was winding now 
Upward to where a pass between the peaks 



140 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Seemed like an opened gate, — to Silva seemed 

An outer-gate of heaven, for through that pass 

They entered his own valley, near Bedmar, 

Sudden within the pass a horseman rose 

One instant dark upon the banner pale 

Of rock-cut sky, the next in motion swift 

With hat and plume high shaken, — ominous. 

Silva had dreamed his future, and the dream 

Held not this messenger. A minute more, — 

It was his friend Don Alvar whom he saw 

Reining his horse up, face to face with him, 

Sad as the twilight, all his clothes ill-girt, — 

As if he had been roused to see one die. 

And brought the news to him whom death had robbed. 

Silva believed he saw the worst, — the town 

Stormed by the infidel, — or, could it be 

Fedalma dragged ? — no, there was not yet time. 

But with a marble face, he only said, 

" What evil, Alvar ? " 

"What this paper speaks." 
It was Fedalma's letter folded close 
And mute as yet for Silva. But his friend 
Keeping it still sharp-pinched against his breast, 
" It will smite hard, my lord : a private grief. 
I would not have you pause to read it here. 
Let us ride on, — we use the moments best. 
Reaching the town with speed. The smaller ill 
Is that our Gypsy prisoners have escaped." 
" No more. Give me the paper, — nay, I know, — 
'T will make no diiference. Bid them march on faster. 
Silva pushed forward, — held the paper crushed 
Close in his right. " They have imprisoned her," 
He said to Alvar in low, hard-cut tones, 
Like a dream-speech of slumbering revenge. 
" No, — when they came to fetch her she was gone." 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 141 

Swift as the right touch on a spring, that word 
Made Silva read the letter. She was gone ! 
But not into locked darkness, — only gone 
Into free air, — where he might find her yet. 
The bitter loss had triumph in it, — what ! 
They would have seized her with their holy claws ? 
The Prior's sweet morsel of despotic hate 
Was snatched from off his lips. This misery 
Had yet a taste of joy. 

But she was gone ! 
The sun had risen, and in the castle walls 
The light grew strong and stronger. Silva walked 
Through the long corridor where dimness yet 
Cherished a lingering, flickering, dying hope : 
Fedalma still was there, — he could not see 
The vacant place that once her pi'esence filled. 
Can we believe that the dear dead are gone ? 
Love in sad weeds forgets the funeral day, 
Opens the chamber door and almost smiles, — 
Then sees the sunbeams pierce athwart the bed 
Where the pale face is not. So Silva's joy, 
Like the sweet habit of caressing hands 
That seek the memory of another hand. 
Still lived on fitfully in spite of words, 
And, numbing thought with vague illusion, dulled 
The slow and steadfast beat of certainty. 
But in the rooms inexorable light 
Streamed through the open window where she fled, 
Streamed on the belt and coronet thrown down, — 
Mute witnesses, — sought out the typic ring 
That sparkled on the crimson, solitary, 
Wounding him like a word. hateful light ! 
It filled the chambers with her absence, glared 
On all the motionless things her hand had touched, 
Motionless all, — save where old Inez lay 



142 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Sunk on the floor holding her rosary, 
Making its shadow tremble Avith her fear. 
And Silva passed her by because she grieved : 
It was the lute, the gems, the pictured heads. 
He longed to crush, because they made no sign 
But of insistence that she was not there. 
She who had filled his sight and hidden them. 
He went forth on the terrace tow'rd the stairs. 
Saw the rained petals of the cistus flowers 
Crushed by large feet ; but on one shady spot 
Far down the steps, where dampness made a home, 
He saw a footprint delicate-slippered, small, 
So dear to him, he searched for sister-prints. 
Searched in the rock-hewn passage with a lamp 
For other trace of her, and found a glove ; 
But not Fedalma's. It was Juan's glove, 
Tasselled, perfumed, embroidered with his name, 
A gift of dames. Then Juan, too, was gone ? 
Full-mouthed conjecture, hurrying through the town. 
Had spread the tale already, — it was he 
That helped the Gypsies' flight. He talked and sang 
Of nothing but the Gypsies and Fedalma. 
He drew the threads together, wove the plan. 
Had lingered out by moonlight and been seen 
Strolling, as was his wont, within the walls, 
Humming his ditties. So Don Alvar told. 
Conveying outside rumor. But the Duke 
Keeping his haughtiness as a visor closed 
Would show no agitated front in quest 
Of small disclosures. What her writing bore 
Had been enough. He knew that she was gone. 
Knew why. 

" The Duke," some said, " will send a force, 
Ketake the prisoners, and bring back his bride." 
But others, winking, " Nay, her wedding dress 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 143 

Would be the san-benito. 'T is a fight 
Between the Duke and Prior. Wise bets will choose 
The churchman : he 's the iron, and the Duke " — 
" Is a fine piece of pottery," said mine host, 
Softening the epigram with a bland regret. 

There was the thread that in the new-made knot 

Of obstinate circumstance seemed hardest drawn, 

Vexed most the sense of Silva, in these hours 

Of fresh and angry pain, — there, in that fight 

Against a foe whose sword was magical. 

His shield invisible terrors, — against a foe 

Who stood as if upon the smoking mount 

Ordaining plagues. All else, Fedalma's flight, 

The father's claim, her Gypsy birth disclosed, 

Were momentary crosses, hindrances 

A Spanish noble might despise. This Chief 

Might still be treated with, would not refuse 

A proffered ransom, which would better serve 

Gypsy prosperity, give him more power 

Over his tribe, than any fatherhood : 

Nay, all the father in him must plead loud 

For marriage of his daughter where she loved, — 

Her love being placed so high and lustrously. 

The keen Zincalo had foreseen a price 

That would be paid him for his daughter's dower, — 

Might soon give signs. Oh, all his purpose lay 

Face upward. Silva here felt strong, and smiled. 

What could a Spanish noble not command ? 

He only helped the Queen, because he chose, — 

Could war on Spaniards, and could spare the Moor, — 

Buy justice, or defeat it, — if he would : 

Was loyal, not from weakness but from strength 

Of high resolve to use his birthright well. 

For nobles too are gods, like Emperors, 



144 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Accept perforce their own divinity 

And wonder at the virtue of their touch, 

Till obstinate resistance shakes their creed, 

Shattering that self whose wholeness is not rounded 

Save in the plastic souls of other men. 

Don Silva had been suckled in that creed 

(A speculative noble else, knowing Italian), 

Held it absurd as foolish argument 

If any failed in deference, was too proud 

Not to be courteous to so poor a knave 

As one who knew not necessary truths 

Of birth and precedence ; but cross his will. 

The miracle-working will, his rage leaped out 

As by a right divine to rage more fatal 

Than a mere mortal man's. And now that will 

Had met a stronger adversary, — strong 

As awful ghosts are whom we cannot touch, 

While they grasp us, subtly as poisoned air. 

In deep-laid fibres of inherited fear 

That lie below all courage. 

Silva said, 
" She is not lost to me, might still be mine 
But for the Inquisition, — the dire hand 
That waits to clutch her with a hideous grasp, 
Not passionate, human, living, but a grasp 
As in the death-throe when the human soul 
Departs and leaves force unrelenting, locked, 
Not to be loosened save by slow decay 
That frets the universe. Father Isidor 
Has willed it so : his phial dropped the oil 
To catch the air-borne motes of idle slander ; 
He fed the fascinated gaze that clung 
Bound all her movements, frank as growths of spring, 
With the new hateful interest of suspicion. 
What barrier is this Gypsy ? a mere gate 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 145 

I '11 find the key for. The one barrier, 

The tightening cord that winds about my limbs, 

Is this kind uncle, this imperious saint, 

He who will save me, guard me from myself. 

And he can work his will : I have no help 

Save reptile secrecy, and no revenge 

Save that I icill do Avhat he schemes to hinder. 

Ay, secrecy, and disobedience, — these 

No tyranny can master. Disobey ! 

You may divide the universe with God, 

Keeping your will unbent, and hold a world 

Where he is not supreme. The Prior shall know it ! 

His will shall breed resistance : he shall do 

The thing he would not, further what he hates 

By hardening my resolve." 

But 'neath this inward speech^ — 
Predominant, hectoring, the more passionate voice 
Of many-blended consciousness, — there breathed 
Murmurs of doubt, the weakness of a self 
That is not one ; denies and yet believes ; 
Protests with passion, " This is natural," — 
Yet owns the other still were truer, better, 
Could nature follow it. A self disturbed 
By budding growths of reason premature 
That breed disease. Spite of defiant rage 
Silva half shrank before the steadfast man 
Whose life was one compacted whole, a state 
Where the rule changed not, and the law was strong. 
Then straightway he resented that forced tribute, 
Rousing rebellion with intenser will. 

But soon this inward strife the slow-paced hours 
Slackened ; and the soul sank with hunger-pangs, 
Hunger of love. Debate was swept right down 
By certainty of loss intolerable. 



146 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

A little loss ! only a dark-tressed maid 

Who had no heritage save her beaviteous being ! 

But in the candor of her virgin eyes 

Saying, I love ; and in the mystic charm 

Of her dear presence, Silva found a heaven 

Where faith and hope were drowned as stars in day. 

Fedalma there, each momentary Now 

Seemed a whole blest existence, a full cup 

That, flowing over, asked no pouring hand 

From past to future. All the world was hers. 

Splendor was but the herald trumpet note 

Of her imperial coining : penury 

Vanished before her as before a gem 

The pledge of treasuries. Fedalma there, 

He thought all loveliness was lovelier. 

She crowning it : all goodness credible. 

Because of the great trust her goodness bred. 

For the strong current of that passionate love 

Which urged his life tow'rds hers, like urgent floods 

That hurry through the various-mingled earth, 

Carried within its stream all qualities 

Of what it penetrated, and made love 

Only another name, as Silva was. 

For the whole man that breathed within his frame. 

And she was gone. Well, goddesses will go ; 

But for a noble there were mortals left 

Shaped just like goddesses, — hateful sweet ! 

impudent pleasure that should dare to front 

With vulgar visage memories divine ! 

The noble's birthright of miraculous will 

Turning I would to inust he, spurning all 

Offered as substitute for what it chose. 

Tightened and fixed in strain irrevocable 

The passionate selection of that love 

Which came not first but as all-conquering last. 

Great Love has many attributes, and shrines 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 147 

For varied worshippers, but his force divine 

Shows most its many-named fulness in the man 

Whose nature multitudinously mixed, 

Each ardent impulse grappling with a thought 

Resists all easy gladness, all content 

Save mystic rapture, where the questioning soul 

Flooded with consciousness of good that is 

Finds life one bounteous answer. So it was 

In Silva's nature. Love had mastery there, 

Not as a holiday ruler, but as one 

Who quells a tumult in a day of dread, 

A welcomed despot. 

Oh, all comforters. 
All soothing things that bring mild ecstasy. 
Came with her coming, in her presence lived. 
Spring afternoons, when delicate shadows fall 
Pencilled upon the grass ; high summer morns 
When white light rains upon the quiet sea 
And corn-fields flush with ripeness ; odors soft, — 
Dumb vagrant bliss that seems to seek a home 
And find it deep within 'mid stirrings vague 
Of far-off moments when our life was fresh ; 
All SAveetly-tempered music, gentle change 
Of sound, form, color, as on wide lagoons 
At sunset when from black far-floating prows 
Comes a clear wafted song; all exquisite joy 
Of a subdued desire, like some strong stream 
Made placid in the fulness of a lake, — 
All came with her sweet presence, for she brought 
The love supreme which gathers to its realm 
All powers of loving. Subtle nature's hand 
Waked with a touch the intricate harmonies 
In her own manifold work. Fedalma there, 
Fastidiousness became the prelude fine 
For full contentment, and young melancholy, 
Lost for its origin, seemed but the pain 



148 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Of waiting for that perfect happiness — 
The happiness was gone ! 

He sat alone, 
Hating companionship that was not hers ; 
Felt bruised with hopeless longing ; drank, as wine, 
Illusions of what had been, would have been ; 
Weary with anger and a strained resolve. 
Sought passive happiness in a waking dream. 
It has been so with rulers, emperors. 
Nay, sages who held secrets of great Time, 
Sharing his hoary and beneficent life, — 
Men who sat throned among the multitudes, — 
They have sore sickened at the loss of one. 
Silva sat lonely in her chamber, leaned 
Where she had leaned, to feel the evening breath 
Shed from the orange-trees ; when suddenly 
His grief was echoed in a sad young voice 
Far and yet near, brought by aerial wings. 

The world is great: the birds all fly from me, 
The stars are golden fruit upon a, tree 
All out of reach : my little sister went, 
And I am lonely. 

The world is great : I tried to mount the hill 
Above the pines, where the light lies so still, 
But it rose higher : little Lisa went. 

And I am lonely. 

The ivorld is great : the wind comes rushing by, 
I tvonder xvhere it comes from ; sea birds cry 
And hurt my heart : my little sister went. 
And I am lonely. 

The ivorld is great : the people laugh and talk. 
And make loud holiday : how fast they walk ! 
Vthi lame, they push me : little Lisa went, 
And L am lonely. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 149 

'T was Pablo, like the wounded spirit of song 

Pouring melodious pain to cheat the hour 

Por idle soldiers in the castle court. 

Dreamily Silva heard and hardly felt 

The song was outward, rather felt it part 

Of his own aching, like the lingering day. 

Or slow and mournful cadence of the bell. 

But when the voice had ceased, he longed for it, 

And fretted at the pause, as memory frets 

When Avords that made its body fall away 

And leave it yearning dumbly. Silva then 

Bethought him whence the voice came, framed perforce 

Some outward image of a life not his 

That made a sorrowful centre to the world, — 

A boy lame, melancholy-eyed, who bore 

A viol, — yes, that very child he saw 

This morning eating roots by the gateway, — saw 

As one fresh-ruined sees and spells a name 

And knows not what he does, yet finds it writ 

Full in the inner record. Hark, again ! 

The voice and viol. Silva called his thought 

To guide his ear and track the travelling sound. 

O bird that used to press 
Thy head against viy cheek 
With touch that seemed to speak 

And ask a tender '■^ yes^'' — 

Ay de mi, my bird ! 

O tender downy breast 
And warmly beating heart, 
That beating seemed a part 
Of me who gave it rest, — 

Ay de mi, my bird ! 
The western court ! The singer might be seen 
From the upper gallery : quick the Duke was there 



150 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Looking upon the court as on a stage. 

Men eased of armor, stretched upon the ground, 

Gambling by snatches ; shepherds from the hills 

Who brought their bleating friends for slaughter ; grooms 

Shouldering loose harness ; leather-aproned smiths, 

Traders with wares, green-suited serving-men. 

Made a round audience ; and in their midst 

Stood little Pablo, pouring forth his song. 

Just as the Duke had pictured. But the song 

Was strangely companied by Eoldan's play 

With the swift-gleaming balls, and now was crushed 

By peals of laughter at grave Annibal, 

Who carrying stick and purse o'erturned the pence, 

Making mistake by rule. Silva had thought 

To melt hard bitter grief by fellowship 

With the world-sorrow trembling in his ear 

In Pablo's voice ; had meant to give command 

Por the boy's presence ; but this company, 

This mountebank and monkey, must be — stay ! 

Not be excepted — must be ordered too 

Into his private presence ; they had brought 

Suggestion of a ready shapen tool 

To cut a path between his helpless wish 

And what it imaged. A ready shapen tool ! 

A spy, an envoy whom he might despatch 

In unsuspected secrecy, to find 

The G-ypsies' refuge so that none beside 

Might learn it. And this juggler could be bribed. 

Would have no fear of Moors, — for who would kill 

Dancers and monkeys? — could pretend a journey 

Back to his home, leaving his boy the while 

To please the Duke with song. Without such chance, — 

An envoy cheap and secret as a mole 

Who could go scathless, come back for his pay 

And vanish straight, tied by no neighborhood, — 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 151 

Without such chance as this poor juggler brought, 
Finding Fedalma was betraying her. 

Short interval betwixt the thought and deed. 

Eoldan was called to private audience 

With Annibal and Pablo. All the world 

(By which I mean the score or two who heard) 

Shrugged high their shoulders, and supposed the Duke 

Would fain beguile the evening and replace 

His lacking happiness, as was the right 

Of nobles, who could pay for any cvire, 

And wore naught broken, save a broken limb. 

In truth, at first, the Duke bade Pablo sing. 

But, while he sang, called Eoldan wide apart, 

And told him of a mission secret, brief, — 

A quest which well performed might earn much gold, 

But, if betrayed, another sort of wages. 

Eoldan was ready • " wished above all for gold 

And never wished to speak ; had worked enough 

At wagging his old tongue and chiming jokes ; 

Thovight it was others' turn to play the fool. 

Give him but pence enough, no rabbit, sirs. 

Would eat and stare and be more dumb than he. 

Give him his orders." 

They were given straight ; 
Gold for the journey, and to buy a mule 
Outside the gates through which he was to pass 
Afoot and carelessly. The boy would stay 
Within the castle, at the Duke's command, 
And must have naught but ignorance to betray 
For threats or coaxing. Once the quest performed, 
The news delivered with some pledge of truth 
Safe to the Duke, the juggler should go forth, 
A fortune in his girdle, take his boy 
And settle firm as any planted tree 



152 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

In fair Valencia, never more to roam. 

" Good ! good ! most worthy of a great hidalgo ! 

And Roldan was the man ! But Annibal, — 

A monkey like no other, though morose 

In private character, yet full of tricks, — 

'T were hard to carry him, yet harder still 

To leave the boy and him in company 

And free to slip away. The boy was wild 

And shy as mountain kid ; once hid himself 

And tried to run away ; and Annibal, 

Who always took the lad's side (he was small, 

And they were nearer of a size, and, sirs. 

Your monkey has a spite against us men 

For being bigger), — Annibal went too. 

Would hardly know himself, were he to lose 

Both boy and monkey, — and 't was property, 

The trouble he had put in Annibal. 

He didn't choose another man should beat 

His boy and monkey. If they ran away 

Some man would snap them up, and square himself 

And say they were his goods, — he 'd taught them, — no ! 

He Koldan had no mind another man 

Should fatten by his monkey, and the boy 

Should not be kicked by any pair of sticks 

Calling himself a juggler." .... 

But the Duke, 
Tired of that hammering, signed that it should cease ; 
Bade Roldan quit all fears, — the boy and ape 
Should be safe lodged in Abderahman's tower, 
In keeping of the great physician there. 
The Duke's most special confidant and friend. 
One skilled in taming brutes, and always kind. 
The Duke himself this eve would see them lodged. 
Eoldan must go, — spend no more words, — but go. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 153 

A room high up in Abderahman's tower, 

A window open to the still warm eve, 

And the bright disk of royal Jupiter. 

Lamps burning low make little atmospheres 

Of light amid the dimness ; here and there 

Show books and phials, stones and instruments. 

In carved dark-oaken chair, unpillowed, sleeps 

Right in the rays of Jupiter a small man. 

In skull-cap bordered close with crisp gray curls. 

And loose black gown showing a neck and breast 

Protected by a dim-green amulet ; 

Pale faced, with finest nostril wont to breathe 

Ethereal passion in a world of thought ; 

Eyebrows jet-black and firm, yet delicate ; 

Beard scant and grizzled ; mouth shut firm, with curves 

So subtly turned to meanings exquisite, 

You seem to read them as you read a word 

FuU-vowelled, long-descended, pregnant, — rich 

With legacies from long, laborious lives. 

Close by him, like a genius of sleep. 

Purrs the gray cat, bridling, with snowy breast. 

A loud knock. ^' Forward ! " in clear vocal ring. 

Enter the Duke, Pablo, and Annibal. 

Exit the cat, retreating toward the dark. 

Don Silva. 
You slept, Sephardo. I am come too soon. 

Sephardo. 
Nay, my lord, it was I who slept too long. 
I go to court among the stars to-night. 
So bathed my soul beforehand in deep sleep. 
But who are these ? 

Don Silva. 

Small guests, for whom I ask 
Your hospitality. Their owner comes 



154 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Some short time hence to claim tiiem. I am pledged 
To keep them safely ; so I bring them you, 
Trusting your friendship for small animals. 

Sephardo. 
Yea^ am not I too a small animal ? 

Don Silva. 

I shall be much beholden to your love 
If you will be their guardian. I can trust 
No other man so well as you. The boy 
Will please you with his singing, touches too 
The viol wondrously. 

Sephakdo. 

They are welcome both. 
Their names are ? 

Don Silva. 

Pablo, this — this Annibal, 
And yet, I hope, no warrior. 

Sephardo. 

We '11 make peace. 
Come, Pablo, let us loosen our friend's chain. 
Deign you, my lord, to sit. Here, Pablo, thou — 
Close to my chair. Now Annibal shall choose. 

[The cautious monkey, in a Moorish dress, 

A tunic white, turban and scymitar, 

Wears these stage garments, nay, his very flesh 

With silent protest ; keeps a neutral air 

As aiming at a metaphysic state 

Twixt "is " and "is not" ; lets his chain be loosed 

By sage Sephardo's hands, sits still at first, 

Then trembles out of his neutrality, 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 155 

Looks up and leaps into Sepliardo's lap, 
And chatters forth his agitated soul, 
Turning to peep at Pablo on the floor.] 

Sephardo. 
See, he declares we are at amity ! 

Don Silva. 
No brother sage had read your nature faster. 

Sephardo. 

Why, so he ^s a brother sage. Man thinks 
Brutes have no wisdom, since they know not his : 
Can we divine their world ? — the hidden life 
That mirrors us as hideous shapeless power, 
Cruel supremacy of sharp-edged death. 
Or fate that leaves a bleeding mother robbed ? 
Oh, they have long tradition and swift speech, 
Can tell with touches and sharp darting cries 
Whole histories of timid races taught 
To breathe in terror by red-handed man. 

Don Silva. 

Ah, you denounce my sport with hawk and hound. 

I would not have the angel Gabriel 

As hard as you in noting down my sins. 

Sephardo. 

Nay, they are virtues for you warriors, — 
Hawking and hunting ! You are merciful 
When you leave killing men to kill the brutes. 
But, for the point of wisdom, I would choose 
To know the mind that stirs between the wings 
Of bees and building wasps, or fills the woods 
With myriad murmurs of responsive sense 



156 rOEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

And true-aimed impulse, rather than to know 
The thoughts of warriors. 

Don Silva. 

Yet they are warriors too, - 
Your animals. Your judgment limps, Sephardo : 
Death is the king of this world ; 't is his park 
Where he breeds life to feed him. Cries of pain 
Are music for his banquet ; and the masque, — 
The last grand masque for his diversion, is 
The Holy Inquisition. 

Sephardo. 
Ay, anon 
I may chime in with you. But not the less 
My judgment has firm feet. Though death were king, 
And cruelty his right-hand minister, 
Pity insurgent in some human breasts 
Makes spiritual empire, reigns supreme 
As persecuted faith in faithful hearts. 
Your small physician, weighing ninety pounds, 
A petty morsel for a healthy shark, 
AVill worship mercy throned within his sovil 
Though all the luminous angels of the stars 
Burst into cruel chorus on his ear. 
Singing, " We know no mercy." He would cry 
" I know it " still, and soothe the frightened bird 
And feed the child a-hungered, walk abreast 
Of persecuted men, and keep most hate 
For rational torturers. There I stand firm. 
But you are bitter, and my speech rolls on 
Out of your note. 

Don Silva. 

No, no, I follow you. 
I too have that within which I will worship 



J 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 157 

In spite of — yes, Sepliarclo, I am bitter. 
I need your counsel, foresight, all your aid. 
Lay these small guests to bed, then we will talk. 

Sephakdo. 
See, they are sleeping now. The boy has made 
My leg his pillow. For my brother sage, 
He '11 never heed us ; he knit long ago 
A sound ape-system, wherein men are brutes 
Emitting doubtful noises. Pray, my lord, 
Unlade what burdens you : my ear and hand 
Are servants of a heart much bound to you. 

Don Silva. 
Yes, yours is love that roots in gifts bestowed 
By you on others, and will thrive the more 
The more it gives. I have a double want : 
First a confessor, — not a Catholic ; 
A heart without a livery, — naked manhood. 

Sephakdo. 
My lord, I will be frank, there 's no such thing 
As naked manhood. If the stars look down 
On any mortal of our shape, whose strength 
Is to judge all things without preference. 
He is a monster, not a faithful man. 
While my heart beats, it shall wear livery, — 
My people's livery, whose yellow badge 
Marks them for Christian scorn. I will not say 
Man is first man to me, then Jew or Gentile : 
That suits the rich marranos ; but to me 
My father is first father and then man. 
So much for frankness' sake. But let that pass. 
'T is true at least, I am no Catholic, 
But Salomo Sephardo, a born Jew, 
Willing to serve Don Silva. 



158 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Don Silva. 

Oft you sing 
Another strain, and melt distinctions down 
As no more real than the wall of dark 
Seen by small fishes' eyes, that pierce a span 
In the wide ocean. Now you league yourself 
To hem me, hold me prisoner in bonds 
Made, say you, — how ? — by God or Demiurge, 
By spirit or flesh, — I care not ! Love was made 
Stronger than bonds, and where they press must break 

them. 
I came to you that I might breathe at large, 
And now you stifle me with talk of birth, 
Of race and livery. Yet you knew Fedalma. 
She was your friend, Sephardo. And you know 
She is gone from me, — know the hounds are loosed 
To dog me if I seek her. 

Sephardo. 
Yes, I know. 
Forgive me that I used untimely speech, 
Pressing a bruise. I loved her well, my lord : 
A woman mixed of such fine elements 
That were all virtue and religion dead 
She 'd make them newly, being what she was. 

Don Silva. 
Was? say not ivas, Sephardo ! She still lives, — 
Is, and is mine ; and I will not renounce 
What heaven, nay, what she gave me. I will sin, 
If sin I must, to win my life agq,in. 
The fault lie with those powers who have embroiled 
The world in hopeless conflict, where all truth 
Fights manacled with falsehood, and all good 
Makes but one palpitating life with evil. 

(Don 8il,y a pauses. Sephakdo is silent.) 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 159 

Sephardo, speak ! am I not justified ? 

You taught my mind to use the wing that soars 

Above the petty fences of the herd : 

Now, when I need your doctrine, you are dumb. 

Sephardo. 
Patience ! Hidalgos want interpreters 
Of untokl dreams and riddles ; they insist 
On dateless horoscopes, on formulas 
To raise a possible spirit, nowhere named. 
Science must be their wishing cap ; the stars 
Speak plainer for high largesse. No, my lord ! 
I cannot counsel you to unknown deeds. 
Thus much I can divine : you wish to find 
Her whom you love, — to make a secret search. 

Don Silva. 
That is begun already : a messenger 
Unknown to all has been despatched this night. 
But forecast must be used, a plan devised, 
Keady for service when my scout returns, 
Bringing the invisible thread to guide my steps 
Toward that lost self my life is aching with. 
Sephardo, I will go : and I must go 
Unseen by all save you ; though, at our need. 
We may trust Alvar. 

Sephardo. 

A grave task, my lord. 
Have you a shapen purpose, or mere will 
That sees the end alone and not the means ? 
Eesolve will melt no rocks. 

Don Silva. 

But it can scale them. 
This fortress has two private issues : one, 



160 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Which served the Gypsies' flight, to me is closed : 

Our bands must watch the outlet, now betrayed 

To cunning enemies. Remains one other. 

Known to no man save me : a secret left 

As heirloom in our house : a secret safe 

Even from him, — from Father Isidor. 

'T is he who forces me to use it, — he : 

All 's virtue that cheats bloodhounds. Hear, Sephardo. 

Given, my scout returns and brings me news 

I can straight act on, I shall want your aid. 

The issue lies below this tower, your fastness, 

Where, by my charter, you rule absolute. 

I shall feign illness ; you with mystic air 

Must speak of treatment asking vigilance 

(Nay I am ill, — my life has half ebbed out). 

I shall be whimsical, devolve command 

On Don Diego, speak of poisoning. 

Insist on being lodged within this tower, 

And rid myself of tendance save from you 

And perhaps from Alvar. So I shall escape 

Unseen by spies, shall win the days I need 

To ransom her and have her safe enshrined. 

No matter, were my flight disclosed at last : 

I shall come back as from a duel fought 

Which no man can undo. Now you know all. 

Say, can I count on you ? 

Sephardo. 

For faithfulness 
In aught that I may promise — yes, my lord. 
But, — for a pledge of faithfulness, — this warning. 
I Avill betray naught for your personal harm : 
I love you. But note this, — I am a Jew ; 
And while the Christian persecutes my race, 
I '11 turn at need even the Christian's trust 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 161 

Into a weapon and a shield for Jews. 
Shall Cruelty crowned — wielding the savage force 
Of multitudes, and calling savageness God 
Who gives it victory — upbraid deceit 
And ask for faithfulness ? I love you well. 
You are my friend. But yet you are a Christian, 
Whose birth has bound you to the Catholic kings. 
There may come moments when to share my joy 
Would make you traitor, when to share your grief 
Would make me other than a Jew .... 

Don Silva. 

What need 
To urge that now, Sephardo ? I am one 
Of many Spanish nobles who detest 
The roaring bigotry of the herd, would fain 
Dash from the lips of king and queen the cup 
Filled with besotting venom, half infused 
By avarice and half by priests. And now, — 
Now when the cruelty you flout me with 
Pierces me too in the apple of my eye, 
Now when my kinship scorches me like hate 
Flashed from a mother's eye, you choose this time 
To talk of birth as of inherited rage 
Deep-down, volcanic, fatal, bursting forth 
From under hard-taught reason ? Wondrous friendship ! 
My uncle Isidor's echo, mocking me. 
From the opposing quarter of the heavens, 
With iteration of the thing I know, 
That I 'm a Christian knight and Spanish noble ! 
The consequence ? Why, that I know. It lies 
In my own hands and not on raven tongues. 
The knight and noble shall not wear the chain 
Of false-linked thoughts in brains of other men. 
What question was there 'twixt us two, of aught 



162 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

That makes division ? When I come to you 
I come for other doctrine than the Prior's. 

Sephardo. 
My lord, you are o'erwrought by pain. My words, 
That carried innocent meaning, do but float 
Like little emptied cups upon the flood 
Your mind brings with it. I but answered you 
With regular proviso, such as stands 
In testaments and charters, to forefend 
A possible case which none deem likelihood ; 
Just turned my sleeve, and pointed to the brand 
Of brotherhood that limits every pledge. 
Superfluous nicety, — the student's trick, 
Who will not drink until he can define 
What water is and is not. But enough. 
My will to serve you now knows no division 
Save the alternate beat of love and fear. 
There 's danger in this quest, — name, honor, life, - 
My lord, the stake is great, and are you sure .... 

Don Silva. 

No, I am sure of naught but this, Sephardo, 
That I will go. Prudence is but conceit 
Hoodwinked by ignorance. There 's naught exists 
That is not dangerous and holds not death 
For souls or bodies. Prudence turns its helm 
To flee the storm and lands 'mid pestilence. 
Wisdom must end by throwing dice with folly 
But for dire passion which alone makes choice. 
And I have chosen as the lion robbed 
Chooses to turn upon the ravislier. 
If love were slack, the Prior's imperious will 
Would move it to outmatch him. But, Sephardo, 
Were all else mute, aU passive as sea-calms, 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 163 

My soul is one great hunger, — I must see her. 
Now you are smiling. Oh, you merciful men 
Pick up coarse griefs and fling them in the face 
Of us whom life with long descent has trained 
To subtler pains, mocking your ready balms. 
You smile at my soul's hunger. 

Sephardo. 

Science smiles 
And sways our lips in spite of us, my lord, 
When thought weds fact, — when maiden prophecy 
Waiting, believing, sees the bridal torch. 
I use not vulgar measures for your grief. 
My pity keeps no cruel feasts ; but thought 
Has joys apart, even in blackest woe, 
And seizing some fine thread of verity 
KnoAvs momentary godhead. 

Don Silva. 

And your thought ? 
Sephardo. 
Seized on the close agreement of your words 
With what is written in your horoscope. 

Don Silva. 
Reach it me now. 

Sephardo. 
By your leave, Annibal. 
(He places Annibal on Pablo's lap and rises. 
The hoy moves tvithout waking, and his head 
falls on the opposite side. Sephardo fetches 
a cushion and lays Pablo's head gently down 
upon it, then goes to reach the parchment from 
a cabinet. Annibal, having waked up in 
alarm, shuts his eyes quickly again and pre- 
tends to sleep.) 



164 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Don Silva. 
I wisli, by new appliance of your skill, 
Reading afresh the records of the sky, 
You could detect more special augury. 
Such chance oft happens, for all characters 
Must shrink or widen, as our wine-skins do, 
For more or less that we can pour in them ; 
And added years give ever a new key 
To fixed prediction. 

Sephardo (^returning with the parchment and reseat- 
ing liimself). 

True ; our growing thought 
Makes growing revelation. But demand not 
Specific augury, as of sure success 
In meditated projects, or of ends 
To be foreknown by peeping in God's scroll. 
I say — nay, Ptolemy said it, but wise books 
For half the truths they hold are honored tombs — 
Prediction is contingent, of effects 
Where causes and concomitants are mixed 
To seeming wealth of possibilities 
Beyond our reckoning. Who will pretend 
To tell the adventures of each single fish 
Within the Syrian Sea ? Show me a fish, 
I '11 weigh him, tell his kind, what he devoured, 
What would have devoured him, — but for one Bias 
Who netted him instead; nay, could I tell 
That had Bias missed him, he would not have died 
Of poisonous mud, and so made carrion. 
Swept off at last by some sea-scavenger ? 

Don Silva. 
Ay, now you talk of fishes, you get hard. 
I note you merciful men : you can endure 
Torture of fishes and hidalgos. Follows ? 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 165 

Sephardo. 

By tow much, then, the fortunes of a man 

Are made of elements refined and mixed 

Beyond a tunny's, what our science tells 

Of the stars' influence hath contingency 

In special issues. Thus, the loadstone draws, 

Acts like a will to make the iron submiss ; 

But garlic rubbing it, that chief effect 

Lies in suspense ; the iron keeps at large, 

And garlic is controller of the stone. 

And so, my lord, your horoscope declares 

Naught absolutely of your sequent lot. 

But, by our lore's authentic rules, sets forth 

What gifts, what dispositions, likelihoods. 

The aspects of the heavens conspired to fuse 

With your incorporate soul. Aught more than this 

Is vulgar doctrine. For the ambient. 

Though a cause regnant, is not absolute, 

But suffers a determining restraint 

From action of the subject qualities 

In proximate motion. * 

Don Silva. 

Yet you smiled just now 
At some close fitting of my horoscope 
With present fact, — with this resolve of mine 
To quit the fortress ? 

Sephardo. 

Nay, not so, I smiled, 
Observing how the temper of your soul 
Sealed long tradition of the influence shed 
By the heavenly spheres. Here is your horoscope : 
The aspects of the moon with Mars conjunct. 
Of Venus and the Sun Avith Saturn, lord 



166 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Of the ascendant, make symbolic speech 
Whereto your words gave running paraphrase. 

Don Silva {impatiently'). 
What did I say ? 

Sephardo. 

You sjjoke as oft you did 
"When I was schooling you at Cordova, 
And lessons on the noun and verb were drowned 
With sudden stream of general debate 
On things and actions. Always in that stream 
I saw the play of babbling currents, saw 
A nature o'er-endowed with opposites 
Making a self alternate, where each hour 
Was critic of the last, each mood too strong 
For tolerance of its fellow in close yoke. 
The ardent planets stationed as supreme, 
Potent in action, suffer light malign 
From luminaries large and coldly bright 
Inspiring meditative doubt, which straight 
Doubts of itself, by interposing act 
Of Jupiter in the fourth house fortified 
With power ancestral. So, my lord, I read 
The changeless in the changing ; so I read 
The constant action of celestial powers 
Mixed into waywardness of mortal men, 
Whereof no sage's eye can trace the course 
And see the close. 

Don Silva. 

Fruitful result, sage ! 
Certain uncertainty. 

Sephardo. 

Yea, a result 
Fruitful as seeded earth, where certainty 
Would be as barren as a globe of gold. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 167 

I love you, and would serve you well, my lord. 
Your rashness vindicates itself too much. 
Puts harness on of cobweb theory 
While rushing like a cataract. Be warned. 
Resolve with you is a fire-breathing steed. 
But it sees visions, and may feel the air 
Impassable with thoughts that come too late, 
Rising from out the grave of murdered honor. 
Look at your image in your horoscope : 

(Laying the horoscope before Silva.) 
You are so mixed, my lord, that each to-day 
May seem a maniac to its morrow. 

DoN^ Silva (pushing away the horoscope, rising and 
turning to look out at the open window). 

No! 
No morrow e'er will say that I am mad 
Not to renounce her. Risks ! I know them all. 
I 've dogged each lurking, ambushed consequence. 
I 've handled every chance to know its shape 
As blind men handle bolts. Oh, I 'm too sane ! 
I see the Prior's nets. He does my deed ; 
For he has narrowed all my life to this, — 
That I must find her by some hidden means. 

(He turns and stands close in front of Sephardo.) 
One word, Sephardo, — leave that horoscope, 
Which is but iteration of myself. 
And give me promise. Shall I count on you 
To act upon my signal ? Kings of Spain 
Like me have foitnd their refuge in a Jew, 
And trusted in his counsel. You will help me ? 

Sephardo. 
Yes, my lord, I will help you. Israel 
Is to the nations as the body's heart : 



168 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Thus saith tlie Book of Light : and I will act 

So that no man may ever say through me 

" Your Israel is naught," and make my deeds 

The mud they fling upon my brethren. 

I will not fail you, save, — you know the terms : 

I am a Jew, and not that infamous life 

That takes on bastardy, will know no father, 

So shrouds itself in the pale abstract, Man. 

You should be sacrificed to Israel 

If Israel needed it. 

Don Silva. 

I fear not that. 
I am no friend of fines and banishment. 
Or flames that, fed on heretics, still gape, 
And must have heretics made to feed them still. 
I take your terms, and, for the rest, your love 
Will not forsake me. 

Sephakdo. 

'T is hard Roman love, 
That looks away and stretches forth the sword 
Bared for its master's breast to run upon. 
But you will have it so. Love shall obey. 

(Silva turns to the windoiv again, and is silent 
for a few moments, looking at the sky.) 

Don Silva. 

See now, Sephardo, you would keep no faith 
To smooth the path of cruelty. Confess, 
The deed I would not do, save for the strait 
Another brings me to (quit my command. 
Resign it for brief space, I mean no more), — 
Were that deed branded, then the brand should fix 
On him who urged me. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 169 

Sephardo. 

Will it, though, my lord ? 
Don Silva. 
I speak not of the fact, but of the right. 

Sephardo. 
My lord, you said but now you were resolved. 
Question not if the world will be unjust 
Branding your deed. If conscience has two courts 
With differing verdicts, where shall lie the appeal ? 
Our law must be without us or within. 
The Highest speaks through all our people's voice, 
Custom, tradition, and old sanctities ; 
Or he reveals himself by new decrees 
Of inward certitude. 

Don Silva. 

My love for her 
Makes highest law, must be the voice of God. 

Sephardo. 
I thought, but now, you seemed to make excuse. 
And plead as in some court where Spanish knights 
Are tried by other laws than those of love. 

Don Silva. 
'T was momentary. I shall dare it all. 
How the great planet glows, and looks at me. 
And seems to pierce me with his effluence ! 
Were he a living God, these rays that stir 
In me the pulse of wonder were in him 
Fulness of knowledge. Are you certified, 
Sephardo, that the astral science shrinks 
To such pale ashes, dead symbolic forms 
For that congenital mixture of effects 
Which life declares without the aid of lore ? 



170 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

If there are times propitious or malign 
To our first framing, then must all events 
Have favoring periods : you cull your plants 
By signal of the heavens, then why not trace 
As others would by astrologic rule 
Times of good augury for momentous acts, — 
As secret journeys ? 

Sephakdo. 

my lord, the stars 
Act not as witchcraft or as muttered spells. 
I said before they are not absolute. 
And tell no fortunes. I adhere alone 
To such tradition of their agencies 
As reason fortifies. 

Don Silva. 

A barren science ! 
Some argue now 't is folly. 'T were as well 
Be of their mind. If those bright stars had will, — 
But they are fatal fires, and know no love. 
Of old, I think, the world was happier 
With many gods, who held a struggling life 
As mortals do, and helped men in the straits 
Of forced misdoing. I doubt that horoscope. 

(Don Silva t^irns from the tcindoiv and re- 
seats himself opposite Sephardo. ) 
I am most self-contained, and strong to bear. 
No man save you has seen my trembling lip 
Uttering her name, since she was lost to me. 
I '11 face the progeny of all my deeds. 

Sephakdo. 
May they be fair ! No horoscope makes slaves. 
'T is but a mirror, shows one image forth. 
And leaves the future dark with endless " ifs." 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 171 

Don Silva. 

I marvel, my Sephardo, you can pinch 

With confident selection these few grains, 

And call them verity, from out the dust 

Of crumbling error. Surely such thought creeps. 

With insect exploration of the world. 

Were I a Hebrew, now, I would be bold. 

Why should you fear, not being Catholic ? 

Sephardo. 
Lo ! you yourself, my lord, mix subtleties 
With gross belief ; by momentary lapse 
Conceive, with all the vulgar, that we Jews 
Must hold ourselves God's outlaws, and defy 
All good with blasphemy, because we hold 
Your good is evil ; think we must turn pale 
To see our portraits painted in your hell. 
And sin the more for knowing we are lost, 

Don Silva, 
Eead not my words with malice, I but meant, 
My temper hates an over-cautious march, 

Sephardo. 
The Unnamable made not the search for truth 
To suit hidalgos' temper. I abide 
By that wise spirit of listening reverence 
Which marks the boldest doctors of our race. 
For truth, to us, is like a living child 
Born of two parents : if the parents part 
And will divide the child, how shall it live ? 
Or, I will rather say : Two angels guide 
The path of man, both aged and yet young, 
As angels are, ripening through endless years. 
On one he leans : some call her Memory, 
And some. Tradition ; and her voice is sweet. 



172 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

With deep mysterious accords : the other, 

Floating above, holds down a lamp which streams 

A light divine and searching on the earth, 

Compelling eyes and footsteps. Memory yields, 

Yet clings with loving check, and shines anew 

Reflecting all the rays of that bright lamp 

Our angel Reason holds. We had not walked 

But for Tradition ; we walk evermore 

To higher paths, by brightening Reason's lamp. 

Still we are purblind, tottering. I hold less 

Than Aben-Ezra, of that aged lore 

Brought by long centuries from Chaldsean plains ; 

The Jew-taught Florentine rejects it all. 

For still the light is measured by the eye, 

And the weak organ fails. I may see ill ; 

But over all belief is faithfulness, 

Which fulfils vision with obedience. 

So, I must grasp my morsels : truth is oft 

Scattered in fragments round a stately pile 

Built half of error ; and the eye's defect 

May breed too much denial. But, my lord, 

I weary your sick soul. Go now with me 

Into the turret. We will watch the spheres. 

And see the constellations bend and plunge 

Into a depth of being where our eyes 

Hold them no more. We '11 quit ourselves and be 

The red Aldebaran or bright Sirius, 

And sail as in a solemn voyage, bound 

On some great quest we know not. 

Don Silva. 

Let us go. 
She may be watching too, and thought of her 
Sways me, as if she knew, to every act 
Of pure allegiance. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 173 

Sephardo. 

That is love's perfection, — 
Tuning the soul to all her harmonies 
So that no chord can jar. Now we will mount. 

{Exeunt.) 



A large hall in the Castle, of Moorish architecture. On the 
side where the xvindoivs are, an outer gallery. Pages 
and other young gentlemen attached to Don Silva's 
household, gathered chiefly at one end of the hall. 
Some are moving about ; others are lounging on the 
carved benches ; others, half stretched on pieces of 
matting and carpet, are gambling. Akias, a stripling 
of fifteen, sings by snatches in a boyish treble, as he 
walks up and dotvn, and tosses back the nuts which 
another youth flings towards him. In the middle Don 
Amador, a gaunt, gray-haired soldier, in a handsome 
uniform, sits in a marble red-cushioned chair, with a 
large book spread out on his knees, from which he is 
reading aloud, while his voice is half drowned by the 
talk that is going on around him, first one voice and 
then another surging above the hum. 

Arias (singing). 

There was a holy hermit 

Who counted all things loss 
For Christ his Master's glory : 

He made an ivory cross, 
And as he knelt before it 

And wept his miirdered Lord, 
The ivory turned to iron. 

The cross became a sword. 



174 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Jose {from the floor). 
I say, twenty cruzados ! thy Galician wit 
Can never count. 

Hernando (also from the floor). 
And thy Sevillian wit always counts double. 

Arias (singing). 

The tears that fell upon it, 

They turned to red, red riist, 
The tears that fell from off it 

Made tvriting in the dust. 
The holy hermit, gazing, 

Saw words upon the ground : 
" The sword he red forever 

With the blood of false Mahound.^^ 

Don Amador (looking up from his hook, and raising 
his voice). 

Wliat, gentlemen ! Our glorious Lady defend us ! 

Enriquez (from the henches). 

Serves the infidels right ! They have sold Christians 
enough to people half the towns in Paradise. If the 
Queen, now, had divided the pretty damsels of Malaga 
among the Castilians who have been helping in the holy 
war, and not sent half of them to Naples .... 

Arias (singing again). 

At the hattle of Clavijo 
In the days of King Ramiro, 
Help us, Allah! cried the Moslem, 
Cried the Spaniard, HeaverJs chosen, 

God and Santiago ! 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 175 

Fabian. 

Oh, the very tail of our chance has vanished. The 
royal army is breaking up, — going home for the winter. 
The Grand Master sticks to his own border. 

Arias {singing). 

Straight out-flushing like the rainbow, 
See him come, celestial Baron, 
Mounted knight, with red-crossed banner, 
Plunging earthtvard to the battle, 

Glorious Santiago ! 

HURTADO. 

Yes, yes, through the pass of By-and-by you go to the 
valley of Never. We might have done a great feat, if 
the Marquis of Cadiz .... 

Arias {sings). 

As the flame before the swift wind, 

See, he fires us, we burn with him ! 

Flash our swords, dash Pagans backward, — 

Victory he! pale fear is allah! 

God with Santiago ! 

Don Amador (raising his voice to a erg). 
Sangre de Dios, gentlemen ! 

(He shuts the book, and lets it fall with a bang 
on the floor. There is instant silence.) 
To what good end is it that I, who studied at Sala- 
manca, and can write verses agreeable to the glorious 
Lady with the point of a sword which hath done harder 
service, am reading aloud in a clerkly manner from a 
book which hath been culled from the flowers of all 
books, to instruct you in the knowledge befitting those 



176 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

who would be knights and worthy hidalgos. I had as 
lief be reading in a belfry. And gambling too ! As if 
it were a time when we needed not the help of God and 
the saints ! Surely for the space of one hour ye might 
subdue your tongues to your ears that so your tongues 
might learn somewhat of civility and modesty. Where- 
fore am I master of the Duke's retinue, if my voice is to 
run along like a gutter in a storm ? 

HuRTADO {lifting up the book, and respectfully pre- 
senting it to Don Amador). 
Pardon, Don Amador ! The air is so commoved by 
your voice, that it stirs our tongues in spite of us. 

Don Amador {reopening the book). 

Confess, now, it is a goose-headed trick, that when 
rational sounds are made for your edification, you find 
naught in it but an occasion for purposeless gabble. I 
will report it to the Duke, and the reading-time shall be 
doubled, and my office of reader shall be handed over to 
Fray Domingo. 

{While Don Amador has been speaking, Don 
SiLVA, with Don Alvar, has appeared walk- 
ing in the outer gallery on which the windows 
are opened^ 

All {in concert^. 
No, no, no. 

Don Amador. 
Are ye ready, then, to listen, if I finish the wholesome 
extract from the Seven Parts, wherein the wise King 
Alfonso hath set down the reason why knights should 
be of gentle birth ? Will ye now be silent ? 

All. 

Yes, silent. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 177 

Don Amador. 
But when I pause, and look up, I give any leave to 
speak, if lie hath aught pertinent to say. 
(^Reads.) 
" And this nobility cometh in three ways : first, by 
lineage ; secondly, by science ; and thirdly, by valor and 
worthy behavior. Now, although they who gain nobility 
through science or good deeds are rightfully called noble 
and gentle ; nevertheless, they are with the highest fit- 
ness so called who are noble by ancient lineage, and lead 
a worthy life as by inheritance from afar ; and hence are 
more bound and constrained to act well, and guard them- 
selves from error and wrong-doing ; for in their case it 
is more true that by evil-doing they bring injury and 
shame not only on themselves, but also on those from 
whom they are derived." 

(Don Amador j^^a^es his forefinger for a mark on 
the page, and looks up, while he keeps his voice 
raised, as wishing Don Silva to overhear him 
in the judicioics discharge of his function.) 

Hear ye that, young gentlemen ? See ye not that if 
ye have but bad manners even, they disgrace you more 
than gross misdoings disgrace the low-born ? Think 
you. Arias, it becomes the son of your house irrever- 
ently to sing and fling nuts, to the interruption of your 
elders ? 

Arias {sitting on the fioor and leaning backward on 
his elbows). 

Nay, Don Amador; King Alfonso, they say, was a 
heretic, and I think that is not true writing. For noble 
birth gives us more leave to do ill if we like. 

Don Amador (lifting his brotcs). 
What bold and blasphemous talk is this ? 



178 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Arias. 

Why, nobles are only punished now and then, in a 
grand way, and have their heads cut off, like the Grand 
Constable. I should n't mind that. 

Jose. 

Nonsense, Arias ! nobles have their heads cut off be- 
cause their crimes are noble. If they did what was 
unknightly, they would come to shame. Is n't that true, 
Don Amador ? 

Don Amador. 

Arias is a contumacious puppy, who will bring dis- 
honor on his parentage. Pray, sirrah, whom did you 
ever hear speak as you have spoken ? 

Arias. 
Nay, I speak out of my own head. I shall go and ask 
the Duke. 

HURTADO. 

Now, now ! you are too bold, Arias. 

Arias. 
Oh, he is never angry with me (dropping his voice), 
because the lady Fedalma liked me. She said I was 
a good boy, and pretty, and that is what you are not, 
Hurtado. 

HuRTADO. 

Girl-face ! See, now, if you dare ask the Duke. 

(Don Silva is just entering the hall from the 
gallery, with Alvab behind him, intending to 
pass out at the other end. All rise with hom- 
age. Don Silva bows coldly and abstractedly. 
Arias advances from the group, and goes up to 
Don Silva.) 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 179 

Arias. 
My lord, is it true that a noble is more dislionored 
than other men if he does aught dishonorable ? 

Don Silva {first blushing deeply, and grasping his sword, 
then raising his hand and giving Arias a blow on the 
ear). 
Varlet ! 

Arias. 
My lord, I am a gentleman. 
(Don Silva pushes him away, and p)asses on hur- 
riedly. ) 

Don Alvar (^folloiving and turning to speak). 
Go, go ! you should not speak to the Duke when you 
are not called upon. He is ill and much distempered. 

(Arias retires, flushed, xvith tears in his eyes. 
His companions look too much surprised to tri- 
umph. Don Amador remains silent and con- 
fused^ 



The Pla^a Santiago during busy market time. Mules 
and asses laden with fruits and vegetables. Stalls 
and booths filled with ivares of all sorts. A crowd of 
buyers and sellers. A stalwart woman with keen eyes, 
leaning over the panniers of a mule laden with apples, 
watches Lorenzo, ivho is lounging through the mar- 
ket. As he approaches her, he is met by Blasco. 

Lorenzo. 
Well met, friend. 

Blasco. 

Ay, for we are soon to part, 
And I would see you at the hostelry, 
To take my reckoning. I go forth to-day. 



180 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Lorenzo. 
'T is grievous parting witli good company. 
I would I had the gold to pay such guests 
For all my pleasure in their talk. 

Blasco, 

Why, yes ; 
A solid-headed man of Aragon 
Has matter in him that you Southerners lack. 
You like my company, — 't is natural. 
But, look you, I have done my business well. 
Have sold and ta'en commissions. I come straight 
From — you know who — I like not naming him. 
I 'm a thick man : you reach not my backbone 
With any toothpick. But I tell you this : 
He reached it with his eye, right to the marrow ! 
It gave me heart that I had plate to sell. 
For, saint or no saint, a good silversmith 
Is wanted for God's service ; and my plate — 
He judged it well — bought nobly. 

Lorenzo. 

A great man. 
And holy ! 

Blasco. 
Yes, I 'm glad I leave to-day. 
For there are stories give a sort of smell, — 
One's nose has fancies, A good trader, sir. 
Likes not this plague of lapsing in the air. 
Most caught by men with funds. And they do say 
There 's a great terror here in Moors and Jews, 
I would say. Christians of unhappy blood. 
'T is monstrous, sure, that men of substance lapse. 
And risk their property. I know I 'm sound. 
No heresy was ever bait to me. Whate'er 
Is the right faith, that I believe, — naught else. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 181 



LOEENZO. 



Ay, truly, for the flavor of true faith 

Once known must sure be sweetest to the taste. 

But an uneasy mood is now abroad 

Within the town ; partly, for that the Duke 

Being sorely sick, has yielded the command 

To Don Diego, a most valiant man, 

More Catholic than the Holy Father's self, 

Half chiding God that he will tolerate 

A Jew or Arab ; though 't is plain they 're made 

For profit of good Christians. And weak heads — 

Panic will knit all disconnected facts — 

Draw hence belief in evil auguries. 

Rumors of accusation and arrest. 

All air-begotten. Sir, you need not go. 

But if it must be so, I '11 follow you 

In fifteen minutes, — finish marketing, 

Then be at home to speed you on your way. 

Blasco. 

Do so. I '11 back to Saragossa straight. 

The court and nobles are retiring now 

And wending northward. There '11 be fresh demand 

For bells and images against the Spring, 

When doubtless our great Catholic sovereigns 

Will move to conquest of these eastern parts, 

And cleanse Granada from the infidel. 

Stay, sir, with God until we meet again ! 

LOEENZO. 

Go, sir, with God, until I follow you ! 

(Exit Blasco. Loeekzo passes on toxoards the 
market-woman, who, as he approaches, raises 
herself from her leaning attitude.) 



182 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

LORE>TZO. 

Good day, my mistress. How 's your merchandise ? 

Fit for a host to buy ? Your apples now, 

They have fair cheeks ; how are they at the core ? 

Market-Woman, 
Good, good, sir ! Taste and try. See, here is one 
Weighs a man's head. The best are bound with tow : 
They 're worth the pains, to keep the peel from splits. 
(^She takes out an apple hound with iow, and, as 
she puts it into Lorenzo's hand, speaks in a 
lower tone.) 
'T is called the Miracle. You open it, 
And find it full of speech. 

Lorenzo. 

Ay, give it me, 
I '11 take it to the Doctor in the tower. 
He feeds on fruit, and if he likes the sort 
I '11 buy them for him. Meanwhile, drive your ass 
Eound to my hostelry. I '11 straight be there. 
You '11 not refuse some barter ? 

Market-Woman. 

No, not I. 
Feathers and skins. 

Lorenzo. 

Good, till we meet again. 
(Lorenzo, after smelling at the appAe, 2>uts it into 
a pouch-like basket xohich hangs before him, and 
walks away. The woman drives off the mule.) 

A Letter. 
" Zarca, the chief of the Zincali, greets 
The King El Zagal. Let the force be sent 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 183 

With utmost swiftness to the Pass of Luz. 

A good five hundred added to my bands 

Will master all the garrison : the town 

Is half with us, and will not lift an arm 

Save on our side. My scouts have found a way 

Where once we thought the fortress most secure : 

Spying a man upon the height, they traced, 

By keen conjecture piecing broken sight, 

His downward path, and found its issue. There 

A file of us can mount, surprise the fort 

And give the signal to our friends within 

To ope the gates for our confederate bands. 

Who will lie eastward ambushed by the rocks, 

Waiting the night. Enough ; give me command, 

Bedmar is yours. Chief Zarca will redeem 

His pledge of highest service to the Moor : 

Let the Moor, too, be faithful and repay 

The Gypsy with the furtherance he needs 

To lead his people over Bahr el Scham 

And plant them on the shore of Africa. 

So may the King El Zagal live as one 

Who, trusting Allah will be true to him, 

Maketh himself as Allah true to friends." 



BOOK III. 

QUIT now the towTi, and with a journeying dream 
Swift as the wings of sound yet seeming slow 
Through multitudinous compression of stored sense 
And spiritual space, see walls and towers 
Lie in the silent whiteness of a trance, 
Giving no sign of that warm life within 
That moves and murmurs through their hidden heart. 
Pass o'er the mountain, wind in sombre shade. 
Then wind into the light and see the town 
Shrunk to white crust upon the darken rock. 
Turn east and south, descend, then rise anew 
'Mid smaller mountains ebbing towards the plain : 
Scent the fresh breath of the height-loving herbs 
That, trodden by the pretty parted hoofs 
Of nimble goats, sigh at the innocent bruise, 
And with a mingled difference exquisite 
Pour a sweet burden on the buoyant air. 
Pause now and be all ear. Par from the south, 
Seeking the listening silence of the heights. 
Comes a slow-dying sound, — the Moslems' call 
To prayer in afternoon. Bright in the sun 
Like tall white sails on a green shadowy sea 
Stand Moorish watch-towers : 'neath that eastern sky 
Couches unseen the strength of Moorish Baza : 
Wliere the meridian bends lies Guadix, hold 
Of brave El Zagal. This is Moorish land. 
Where Allah lives unconquered in dark breasts 
And blesses still the many-nourishing earth 
With dark-armed industry. See from the steep 
The scattered olives hurry in gray throngs 
Down towards the valley, where the little stream 



186 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Parts a green liollow 'twixt the gentler slopes ; 

And in that hollow, dwellings : not white homes 

Of building Moors, but little swarthy tents 

Such as of old perhaps on Asian plains, 

Or wending westward past the Caucasus, 

Our fathers raised to rest in. Close they swarm 

About two taller tents, and viewed afar 

Might seem a dark-robed crowd in penitence 

That silent kneel ; but come now in their midst 

And watch a busy, bright-eyed, sportive life ! 

Tall maidens bend to feed the tethered goat, 

The ragged kirtle fringing at the knee 

Above the living curves, the shoulder's smoothness 

Parting the torrent strong of ebon hair. 

Women with babes, the wild and neutral glance 

Swayed now to sweet desire of mothers' eyes. 

Rock their strong cradling arms and chant low strains 

Taught by monotonous and soothing winds 

That fall at night-time on the dozing ear. 

The crones plait reeds, or shred the vivid herbs 

Into the caldron : tiny urchins crawl 

Or sit and gurgle forth their infant joy. 

Lads lying sphinx-like with uplifted breast 

Propped on their elbows, their black manes tossed back, 

Fling up the coin and watch its fatal fall, 

Dispute and scramble, run and wrestle fierce, 

Then fall to play and fellowship again ; 

Or in a thieving swarm they run to plague 

The grandsires, who return with rabbits slung. 

And with the mules fruit-laden from the fields. 

Some striplings choose the smooth stones from the brook 

To serve the slingers, cut the twigs for snares. 

Or trim the hazel-wands, or at the bark 

Of some exploring dog they dart away 

With swift precision towards a moving speck. 




His doublet loose, his right arm backward fluag, 
His left caressing close the long-necked lute." 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 187 

These are the brood of Zarca's Gypsy tribe ; 
Most like an earth-born race bred by the Sun 
On some rich tropic soil, the father's light 
Flashing in coal black eyes, the mother's blood 
With bounteous elements feeding their young limbs. 
The stalwart men and youths are at the wars 
Following their chief, all save a trusty band 
Who keep strict watch along the northern heights. 

But see, upon a pleasant spot removed 

From the camp's hubbub, where the thicket strong 

Of huge-eared cactus makes a bordering curve 

And casts a shadow, lies a sleeping man 

With Spanish hat screening his upturned face, 

His doublet loose, his right arm backward flung, 

His left caressing close the long-necked lute 

That seems to sleep too, leaning tow'rds its lord. 

He draws deep breath secure but not unwatched. 

Moving a-tiptoe, silent as the elves, 

As mischievous too, trip three barefooted girls 

Not opened yet to womanhood, — dark flowers 

In slim long buds : some paces farther off 

Gathers a little white-teethed shaggy group, 

A grinning chorus to the merry play. 

The tripping girls have robbed the sleeping man 

Of all his ornaments. Hita is decked 

With an embroidered scarf across her rags ; 

Tralla, with thorns for pins, sticks two rosettes 

Upon her threadbare woollen ; Hinda now. 

Prettiest and boldest, tucks her kirtle up 

As wallet for the stolen buttons, — then 

Bends with her knife to cut from off the hat 

The aigrette and the feather; deftly cuts, 

Yet wakes the sleeper, who with sudden start 

Shakes off the masking hat and shows the face 



188 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Of Juan : Hinda swift as thought leaps back, 
But carries off the feather and aigrette, 
And leads the chorus of a happy laugh. 
Running with all the naked-footed imps. 
Till with safe survey all can face about 
And watch for signs of stimulating chase, 
While Hinda ties long grass around her brow 
To stick the feather in with majesty. 
Juan still sits contemplative, with looks 
Alternate at the spoilers and their work. 

Juan. 

Ah, you marauding kite, — my feather gone ! 

My belt, my scarf, my buttons and rosettes ! 

This is to be a brother of Zincali ! 

The fiery-blooded children of the Sun, — 

So says chief Zarca, — children of the Sun ! 

Ay, ay, the black and stinging flies he breeds 

To plague the decent body of mankind. 

Orpheus,' professor of the gai saber, 

Made all the brutes polite, they say, by dint of song. 

Pregnant, — but as a guide in daily life 

Delusive. For if song and music cure 

The barbarous trick of thieving, 't is a cure 

That works as slowly as old Doctor Time 

In curing folly. Why, the minxes there 

Have rhythm in their toes, and music rings 

As readily from them as from little bells 

Swung by the breeze. Well, I will try the physic. 

{He touches his lute.) 
Hem ! taken rightly, any single thing 
The Eabbis say, implies all other things. 
A knotty task, though, the unravelling 
Meitm and Tuum from a saraband : 
It needs a subtle logic, nay, perhaps 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 189 

A good large property, to see tlie thread. 

{He touches the lute again.) 
There 's more of odd than even in this world, 
Else pretty sinners would not be let off 
Sooner than ugly ; for if honeycombs 
Are to be got by stealing, they should go 
Where life is bitterest on the tongue. And yet, — 
Because this minx has pretty ways I wink 
At all her tricks, though if a flat-faced lass, 
With eyes askew, were half as bold as she, 
I should chastise her with a hazel switch. 
I 'm a plucked peacock, — even my voice and wit 
Without a tail ! — why, any fool detects 
The absence of your tail, but twenty fools 
May not detect the presence of your wit. 

{He touches his lute again.) 
Well, I must coax my tail back cunningly, 
For to run after these brown lizards, — ah ! 
I think the lizards lift their ears at this. 

{As he thrums his lute the lads and girls gradu- 
ally approach : he touches it more briskly, and 
HiNDA, advancing, begins to move arms and 
legs with an initiatory dancing movement, 
smiling coaxingly at Juan. He suddenly stops, 
lays doivn his lute and folds his arms.) 
"What, you expected a tune to dance to, eh ? 

HlNDA, HiTA, TrALLA, AND THE REST {clappiug 

their hands). 
Yes, yes, a tune, a tune ! 

Juan. 
But that is what you cannot have, my sweet brothers 
and sisters. The tunes are all dead, — dead as the tunes 
of the lark when you have plucked his wings off ; dead 



190 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

as the song of the grasshopper when the ass has swal- 
lowed him. I can play and sing no more. Hmda has 
killed my tunes. 

{All cry out in consternation. Hinda gives a wail 

and tries to examine the lute. Juan waves her 

off-) 

Understand, Senora Hinda, that the tunes are in me ; 

they are not in the lute till I put them there. And if 

you cross my humor, I shall be as tuneless as a bag of 

wool. If the tunes are to be brought to life again, I 

must have my feather back. 

(Hinda kisses his hands and feet coaxinglij.) 
No, no ! not a note will come for coaxing. The feather, 
I say, the feather ! 

(Hinda sorrowfully takes off the feather, and gives 
it to Juan.) 
Ah, now let us see. Perhaps a tune will come. 

{He plays a measure, and the three girls begin to 
dance ; then he suddenly stops.) 
No, the tune will not come : it wants the aigrette 
{pointing to it on Hinda's neck). 

(Hinda, ivith rather less hesitation, hut again sor- 
rotvfully, takes off the aigrette, and gives it to 
him.) 
Ha! {he plays again, but, after rather a longer time, 
again stops.) No, no ; 't is the buttons are wanting, 
Hinda, the buttons. This tune feeds chiefly on but- 
tons, — a hungry tune. It wants one, two, three, four, 
live, six. Good ! 

{After Hinda has given up the buttons, and Juan 
has laid them down one by one, he begins to 
play again, going on longer than before, so that 
the dancers become excited by the moveme^it. 
Then he stops.) 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 191 

Ah, Hita, it is the belt, and, Tralla, the rosettes, — 
both are wanting. I see the tune will not go on Avithoiit 
them. 

(Hita and Tralla take off the belt and rosettes, 
and lay them doivn quickly, being fired by the 
dancing, and eager for the music. All the arti- 
cles lie by Juajst's side on the ground.) 
Good, good, my docile wild-cats! Now I think the 
tunes are all alive again. Now you may dance and sing 
too. Hinda, my little screamer, lead off with the song 
I taught you, and let us see if the tune will go right on 
from beginning to end. 

{He jplays. The dance begins again, Hin^da singing. 
All the other boys and girls join in the chorus, 
and all at last dance wildly.) 

Song. 
All things journey : sun and moo7i, 
Morning, noon, and afternoon. 

Night and all her stars : 
'Twixt the east and western bars 

Round they journey, 
Come and go ! 

We go with them ! 
For to roam and ever roam 
Is the wild ZincalVs home. 

Earth is good, the hillside breaks 
By the ashen roots and makes 

Hungry nostrils glad : 
Then ice run till we are mad, 

Like the horses. 
And we cry. 

None shall catch us ! 
^Sivift winds wing us, — ive are free, — 
Drink the air, — Zincali we ! 



192 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Falls the snow : the pine-branch sjylit, 
Call the fire out, see it flit, 

Through the dry leaves run, 
Spread and glow, and make a sun 

In the dark tent : 
warm dark ! 

Warm as conies ! 
Strong fire loves us, we are warm ! 
Who shall work Zincali harm ? 

Onivard journey : fires are spent ; 
Sunward, sunward ! lift the tent. 

Bun before the rain, 
Through the pass, along the 2)lain. 

Hurry, hurry. 

Lift us, wind ! 

Like the horses. 
-For to roam and ever roam 
Is the ivild ZincaWs home. 

(WJien the dance is at its height, Hinda breaks 
away from the rest, and dances round Juan, 
who is now standing. As he turns a little to 
watch her Tnovement, some of the boys skijj 
towards the feather, aigrette, &c., snatch them 
up, and run away, swiftly followed by Hita, 
Tralla, and the rest. Hiistda, as she turns 
again, sees them, screams, and falls in her whirl- 
ing ; btit immediately gets up, and rushes after 
them, still screaming with rage.) 

Juan. 

Santiago ! these imps get bolder. Haha ! Seiiora Hinda, 
tins finishes your lesson in ethics. You have seen the 
advantage of giving up stolen goods. Now you see the 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 193 

ugliness of thieving when practised by others. That 
fable of mine about the tunes was excellently devised. 
I feel like an ancient sage instructing our lisping ances- 
tors. My memory will descend as the Orpheus of Gyp- 
sies. But I mnst prepare a rod for those rascals. I '11 
bastinado them with prickly pears. It seems to me 
these needles will have a sound moral teaching in them. 
(JVhile JvAi^ takes a knife from his belt, and sla- 
veys the prickly pear, Hixda returns.) 

Juan. 

Pray, Senora, why do you fume ? Did you want to 
steal my ornaments again yourself ? 

HiNDA (sobbing). 
No ; I thought you would give them me back again. 

JUAX. 

What, did you want the tunes to die again ? Do you 
like finery better than dancing ? 

HiNDA. 

Oh, that was a tale ; I shall tell tales too, when I 
want to get anything I can't steal. And I know what 
I will do. I shall tell the boys I 've found some little 
foxes, and I will never say where they are till they give 
me back the feather ! {She runs off again.) 

Juan. 

Hem ! the disciple seems to seize the mode sooner 
than the matter. Teaching virtue with this prickly pear 
may only teach the youngsters to use a new weapon ; 
as your teaching orthodoxy with fagots may only bring 
up a fashion of roasting. Dios ! my remarks grow too 
pregnant, — my wits get a plethora by solitary feeding 
on the produce of my own wisdom. 



194 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

(As he puts up his knife again, Hinda comes run- 
ning hack, and crying, " Our Queen ! our Queen ! " 
Juan adjusts his garments and his lute, ivhile 
Hinda turns to meet Fedalma, tvho wears a 
Moorish dress, icith gold ornaments, her black 
hair hanging round her in plaits, a white turban 
on her head, a dagger by her side. She carries 
a scarf on her left arm, which she holds up as 
a shade.) 

Fedalma [patting Hinda's head). 
How now, wild one ? You are hot and panting. Go 
to my tent, and help ISTouna to plait reeds. 

(Hinda kisses Fedalma's hand, and rims off. 
Fedalma advances towards Juan, tvho kneels 
to take up the edge of her cymar, and kisses it.) 

Juan. 
How is it with you, lady ? You look sad. 

Fedalma. 
Oh, I am sick at heart. The eye of day, 
The insistent summer sun, seems pitiless, 
Shining in all the barren crevices 
Of weary life, leaving no shade, no dark. 
Where I may dream that hidden Avaters lie ; 
As pitiless as to some shipwrecked man. 
Who, gazing from his narrow shoal of sand 
On the wide unspecked round of blue and blue, 
Sees that full light is errorless despair. 
The insects' hum that slurs the silent dark 
Startles, and seems to cheat me, as the tread 
Of coming footsteps cheats the midnight watcher 
Who holds her heart and waits to hear them pause, 
And hears them never pause, but pass and die. 
Music sweeps by me as a messenger 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 195 

Carrying a message that is not for me. 

The very sameness of the hills and sky 

Is obduracy, and the lingering hours 

Wait round me dumbly, like superfluous slaves, 

Of whom I want naught but the secret news 

They are forbid to tell. And, Juan, you — 

You, too, are cruel — would be over-wise 

In judging your friend's needs, and choose to hide 

Something I crave to know. 

JuAisr. 

I, lady? 

Fed ALMA. 

You. 
Juan. 
I never had the virtue to hide aught. 
Save what a man is whipped for publishing. 
I 'm no more reticent than the voluble air, — 
Dote on disclosure, — never could contain 
The latter half of all my sentences, 
But for the need to utter the beginning. 
My lust to tell is so importuiiate 
That it abridges every other vice, 
And makes me temperate for want of time. 
I dull sensation in the haste to say 
'T is this or that, and choke report with surmise. 
Judge, then, dear lady, if I could be mute 
When but a glance of yours had bid me speak. 

Fed ALMA. 

Nay, sing such falsities ! — you mock me worse 

By speech that gravely seems to ask belief. 

You are but babbling in a part you play 

To please my father. Oh, 't is well meant, say you, — 

Pity for woman's weakness. Take my thanks. 



196 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Juan. 
Thanks angrily bestowed are red-hot coin 
Burning your servant's palm. 

Fed ALMA. 

Deny it not, 
You know how many leagues this camp of ours 
Lies from Bedmar, — what mountains lie between, 
Could tell me if you would about the Duke, — 
That he is comforted, sees how he gains 
By losing the Zincala, finds how slight 
The thread Fedalma made in that rich web, 
A Spanish noble's life. No, that is false ! 
He never would think lightly of our love. 
Some evil has befallen him, — he 's slain, — 
Has sought for danger and has beckoned death 
Because I made all life seem treachery. 
Tell me the worst, — be merciful, — no worst. 
Against the hideous painting of my fear. 
Would not show like a better. 

Juan. 

If I speak. 
Will you believe your slave ? For truth is scant ; 
And where the appetite is still to hear 
And not believe, falsehood would stint it less. 
How say you ? Does your hunger's fancy choose 
The meagre fact ? 

Fedalma {seating herself on the ground). 

Yes, yes, the truth, dear Juan. 
Sit now, and tell me all. 

Juan. 

That all is naught. 
I can unleash my fancy if you wish 
And hunt for phantoms : shoot an airy guess 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 197 

And bring down airy likelihood, — some lie 

Masked cunningly to look like royal truth 

And cheat the shooter, while King Fact goes free, 

Or else some image of reality 

That doubt will handle and reject as false. 

Ask for conjecture, — I can thread the sky 

Like any swallow, but, if you insist. 

On knowledge that would guide a pair of feet 

Right to Bedmar, across the Moorish bounds, 

A mule that dreams of stumbling over stones 

Is better stored. 

Fed ALMA. 
And you have gathered naught 
About the border wars ? No news, no hint 
Of any rumors that concern the Duke, — 
Rumors kept from me by my father ? 

JuAsr. 

None. 
Your father trusts no secrets to the echoes. 
Of late his movements have been hid from all 
Save those few hundred picked Zincali breasts 
He carries with him. Think you he 's a man 
To let his projects slip from out his belt. 
Then whisper him who haps to find them strayed 
To be so kind as keep his counsel well ? 
Why, if he found me knowing aught too much. 
He would straight gag or strangle me, and say, 
" Poor hound ! it was a pity that his bark 
Could chance to mar my plans : he loved my daughter, — 
The idle hound had naught to do but love. 
So followed to the battle and got crushed." 

Fedalma (holding out her hand, which Juan kisses). 
Good Juan, I could have no nobler friend. 
You 'd ope your veins and let your life-blood out 



198 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

To save another's pain, yet hide the deed 

With jesting, — say, 't was merest accident, 

A sportive scratch that went by chance too deep, — 

And die content with men's slight thought of you, 

Finding your glory in another's joy. 

Juan. 

Dub not my likings virtues, lest they get 
A drug-like taste, and breed a nausea. 
Honey 's not sweet, commended as cathartic. 
Such names are parchment labels upon gems 
Hiding their color. What is lovely seen 
Priced in a tariff ? — lapis lazuli. 
Such bulk, so many drachmas : amethysts 
Quoted at so much ; sapphires higher still. 
The stone like solid heaven in its blueness 
Is what I care for, not its name or price. 
So, if I live or die to serve my friend, 
'T is for my love, — 't is for my friend alone, 
And not for any rate that friendship bears 
In heaven or on earth. Nay, I romance, — 
I talk of Eoland and the ancient peers. 
In me 't is hardly friendship, only lack 
Of a substantial self that holds a weight ; 
So I kiss larger things and roll with them. 

Fedalma. 

Nay, you will never hide your soul from me ; 
I 've seen the jewel's flash, and know 't is there, 
Muffle it as you will. That foam-like talk 
Will not wash out a fear which blots the good 
Your presence brings me. Oft I 'm pierced afresh 
Through all the pressure of my selfish griefs 
By thought of you. It was a rash resolve 
Made you disclose yourself when you kept watch 



I 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 199 

About the terrace wall : — your pity leaped 
Seeing my ills alone and not your loss, 
Self-doomed to exile. Juan, you must repent. 
'T is not in nature that resolve, which feeds 
On strenuous actions, should not pine and die 
In these long days of empty listlessness. 

Juan. 

Repent ? Not I. Repentance is the weight 

Of indigested meals eat yesterday. 

'T is for large animals that gorge on prey, 

Not for a honey-sipping butterfly. 

I am a thing of rhythm and redondillas, — 

The momentary rainbow on the spray 

Made by the thundering torrent of men's lives : 

Xo matter whether I am here or there ; 

I still catch sunbeams. And in Africa, 

Where melons and all fruits, they say, grow large. 

Fables are real, and the apes polite, 

A poet, too, may prosper past belief: 

I shall grow epic, like the Florentine, 

And sing the founding of our infant state 

Sing the Zincalo's Carthage. 

Fedalma. 

Africa ! 
Would we were there ! Under another heaven, 
In lands where neither love nor memory 
Can plant a selfish hope, — in lands so far 
I should not seem to see the outstretched arms 
That seek me, or to hear the voice that calls. 
I should feel distance only and despair ; 
So rest forever from the thought of bliss. 
And wear my weight of life's great chain unstruggling. 
Juan, if I could know he would forget, — 



200 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Nay, not forget, forgive me, — be content 

That I forsook him for no joy, but sorrow ; 

For sorrow chosen rather than a joy 

That destiny made base ! Then he would taste 

No bitterness in sweet, sad memory, 

And I should live unblemished in his thought, 

Hallowed like her who dies an unwed bride. 

Our words have wings, but fly not where we would. 

Could mine but reach him, Juan ! 

Juan. 

Speak but the wish, 
My feet have wings, — I '11 be your Mercury. 
I fear no shadowed perils by the way. 
No man will wear the sharpness of his sword 
On me. Nay, I 'm a herald of the Muse, 
Sacred for Moors and Spaniards. I will go, — 
Will fetch you tidings for an amulet. 
But stretch not hope too strongly towards that mark 
As issue of my wandering. Given, I cross 
Safely the Moorish border, reach Bedmar : 
Fresh counsels may prevail there, and the Duke 
Being absent in the field, I may be trapped. 
Men who are sour at missing larger game 
May wing a chattering sparrow for revenge. 
It is a chance no further worth the note 
Than as a warning, lest you feared worse ill 
If my return were stayed. I might be caged ; 
They would not harm me else. Untimely death, 
The red auxiliary of the skeleton, 
. Has too much work on hand to think of me ; 
Or, if he cares to slay me, I shall fall 
Choked with a grape-stone for economy. 
The likelier chance is that I go and come. 
Bringing you comfort back. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 201 

Fedalma (starts from her seat and walks to a little 
distance, standing a few moments with her back to- 
ivards Juan then she turns round quickly, and goes 
toivards him). 

Ko, Juan, no ! 
Those yearning words come from a soul infirm, 
Crying and struggling at the pain of bonds 
Which yet it would not loosen. He knows all, — 
All that he needs to know : I said farewell : 
I stepped across the cracking earth and knew 
'T Avould yawn behind me. I must walk right on. 
No, Juan, I will win naught by risking you : 
The possible loss would poison hope. Besides, 
'T were treachery in me : my father wills 
That we — all here — should rest within this camp. 
If I can never live, like him, on faith 
In glorious morrows, I am resolute. 
While he treads painfully with stillest step ^ 

And beady brow, pressed 'neath the weight of arms, 
Shall I, to ease my fevered restlessness. 
Raise peevish moans, shattering that fragile silence ? 
No ! On the close-thronged spaces of the earth 
A battle rages : Fate has carried me 
'Mid the thick arrows : I will keep my stand, — 
Not shrink and let the shaft pass by my breast 
To pierce another. Oh, 't is written large 
The thing I have to do. But you, dear Juan, 
Renounce, endure, are brave, unurged by aught 
Save the sweet overflow of your good will. 

{She seats herself again.) 

Juan. 

Nay, I endure naught worse than napping sheep, 

When nimble birds uproot a fleecy lock 

To line their nest with. See ! your bondsman, Queen, 



202 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

The minstrel of your court, is featherless ; 

Deforms your presence by a moulting garb ; 

Shows like a roadside bush culled of its buds. 

Yet, if your graciousness will not disdain 

A poor plucked songster, — shall he sing to you ? 

Some lay of afternoons, — some ballad strain 

Of those who ached once but are sleeping now 

Under the sun-warmed flowers ? 'T will cheat the time. 

Fed ALMA. 
Thanks, Juan, later, when this hour is passed. 
My soul is clogged with self ; it could not float 
On with the pleasing sadness of your song. 
Leave me in this green spot, but come again, — 
Come with the lengthening shadows. 

Juan. 

Then your slave 
Will, go to chase the robbers. Queen, farewell ! 

Fed alma. 
Best friend, my well-spring in the wilderness ! 

[While Juan sped along the stream, there came 
From the dark tents a ringing joyous shout 
That thrilled Fedalma with a summons grave 
Yet welcome too. Straightway she rose and stood, 
All languor banished, with a soul suspense. 
Like one who waits high presence, listening. 
Was it a message, or her father's self 
That made the camp so glad ? 

It was himself ! 
She saw him now advancing, girt with arms 
That seemed like idle trophies hung for show 
Beside the weight and fire of living strength 
That made his frame. He glanced with absent triumph, 
As one who conquers in some field afar 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 203 

And bears off unseen spoil. But nearing her, 
His terrible eyes intense sent forth new rays, — 
A sudden sunshine where the lightning was 
'Twixt meeting dark. All tenderly he laid 
His hand upon her shoulder ; tenderly, 
His kiss upon her brow.] 

Zarca. 

My royal daughter ! 
Fedalma. 
Father, I joy to see your safe return. 

Zarca. 

Nay, I but stole the time, as hungry men 

Steal from the morrow's meal, made a forced march, 

Left Hassan as my watch-dog, all to see 

My daughter, and to feed her famished hope 

With news of promise. 

Fedalma. 

Is the task achieved 
That was to be the herald of our flight ? 

Zarca. 

Not outwardly, but to my inward vision 

Things are achieved when they are well begun. 

The perfect archer calls the deer his own 

While yet the shaft is whistling. His keen eye 

Never sees failure, sees the mark alone. 

You have heard naught, then, — had no messenger ? 

Fedalma. 
I, father ? no : each quiet day has fled 
Like the same moth, returning with slow wing, 
And pausing in the sunshine. 

Zarca, 

It is well. 
You shall not long count days in weariness. 



204 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Ere the fxill moon has waned again to new, 
We shall reach Almeria : Berber ships 
Will take us for their freight, and we shall go 
With plenteous spoil, not stolen, bravely won 
By service done on Spaniards. Do you shrink ? 
Are you aught less than a Zincala ? 

Fed ALMA. 

No; 
But I am more. The Spaniards fostered me. 

Zakca. 
They stole you first, and reared you for the flames. 
I found you, rescued you, that you might live 
A true Zincala's life ; else you were doomed. 
Your bridal bed had been the rack. 

Fed ALMA (in a low tone). 

They meant — 
To seize me ? — ere he came ? 

Zarca. 

Yes, I know all. 
They found your chamber empty. 

Fedalma {eagerly). 

Then you know, — 
( Checking hevHelf. ) 
Father, my soul would be less laggard, fed 
With fuller trust. 

Zarca. 
My daughter, I must keep 
The Arab's secret. Arabs are our friends, 
Grappling for life with Christians who lay waste 
Granada's valleys, and with devilish hoofs 
Trample the young green corn, with devilish play 
Fell blossomed trees, and tear up well-pruned vines : 
Cruel as tigers to the vanquished brave. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 205 

They wring out gold by oaths they mean to break ; 

Take pay for pity and are pitiless ; 

Then tinkle bells above the desolate earth, 

And praise their monstrous gods, supposed to iove 

The flattery of liars. I will strike 

The full-gorged dragon. You, my child, must watch 

The battle Avith a heart, not fluttering 

But duteous, firm-weighted by resolve, 

Choosing between two lives, like her who holds 

A dagger which must pierce one of two breasts, 

And one of them her father's. Nay, you divine, — 

I speak not closely, but in parables ; 

Put one for many. 

Fedalma (collecting herself, and looking firmly at 
Zarca). 
Then it is your will 
That I ask nothing ? 

Zarca. 

You shall know enough 
To trace the sequence of the seed and flower. 
El Zagal trusts me, rates my counsel high : 
He, knowing I have won a grant of lands 
Within the Berber's realm, wills me to be 
The tongue of his good cause in Africa, 
So gives us furtherance in our pilgrimage 
For service hoped, as well as service done 
In that great feat of which I am the eye. 
And my three hundred Gypsies the best arm. 
More, I am charged by other noble Moors 
With messages of weight to Telemsdn. 
Ha, your eye flashes. Are you glad ? 

Fedalma. 

Yes, glad 
That men are forced to honor a Zincalo, 



206 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Zarca. 
Oh fighting for dear life men choose their swords 
For cutting only, not for ornament. 
What naught but Nature gives, man takes perforce 
Where she bestows it, though in vilest place. 
Can he compress invention out of pride. 
Make heirship do the work of muscle, sail 
Towards great discoveries with a pedigree ? 
Sick men ask cures, and Nature serves not hers 
Daintily as a feast. A blacksmith once 
Founded a dynasty and raised on high 
The leathern apron over armies spread 
Between the mountains like a lake of steel. 

Fedalma {bitterly'). 
To be contemned, then, is fair augury. 
That pledge of future good at least is ours. 

Zarca. 
Let men contemn us : 't is such blind contempt 
That leaves the winged broods to thrive in warmth 
Unheeded, till they fill the air like storms. 
So we shall thrive, — still darkly shall draw force 
Into a new and multitudinous life 
That likeness fashions to community, 
Mother divine of customs, faith, and laws. 
'T is ripeness, 't is fame's zenith that kills hope. 
Huge oaks are dying, forests yet to come 
Lie in the twigs and rotten-seeming seeds. 

Fed alma. 
And our Zincali ? Under their poor husk 
Do you discern such seed ? You said our band 
Was the best arm of some hard enterprise ; 
They give out sparks of virtue, then, and show 
There 's metal in their earth ? 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 207 

Zarca. 

Ay, metal fine 
In my brave Gypsies. Not the lithest Moor 
Has lither limbs for scaling, keener eye 
To mark the meaning of the farthest speck 
That tells of change ; and they are disciplined 
By faith in me, to such obedience 
As needs no spy. My scalers and my scouts 
Are to the Moorish force they 're leagued withal 
As bow-string to the bow ; while I their chief 
Command the enterprise and guide the will 
Of Moorish captains, as the pilot guides 
With eye-instructed hand the passive helm. 
For high device is still the highest force, 
And he who holds the secret of the wheel 
May make the rivers do what work he would. 
With thoughts impalpable we clutch men's souls, 
Weaken the joints of armies, make them fly 
Like dust and leaves before the viewless wind. 
Tell me what 's mirrored in the tiger's heart, 
I '11 rule that too. 

Fedalma (wrought to a gloiv of admiration). 
my imperial father ! 
'T is where there breathes a mighty soul like yours 
That men's contempt is of good augury. 

Zarca (seizing both Fedalma's hands, and looking 
at her searchingly). 
And you, my daughter, are you not the child 
Of the Zincalo ? Does not his great hope 
Thrill in your veins like shouts of victory ? 
'T is a vile life that like a garden pool 
Lies stagnant in the round of personal loves ; 
That has no ear save for the tickling lute 



208 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Set to small measures, — deaf to all the beats 

Of that large music rolling o'er the world : 

A miserable, petty, low-roofed life, 

That knows the mighty orbits of the skies 

Through naught save light or dark in its own cabin. 

The very brutes will feel the force of kind 

And move together, gathering a new soul, — 

The soul of multitudes. Say now, my child, 

You will not falter, not look back and long 

For unfledged ease in some soft alien nest. 

The crane with outspread wing that heads the file 

Pauses not, feels no backward impulses : 

Behind it summer was, and is no more ; 

Before it lies the summer it will reach 

Or fall in the mid-ocean. And you no less 

Must feel the force sublime of growing life. 

New thoughts are urgent as the growth of wings ; 

The widening vision is imperious 

As higher members bursting the worm's sheath. 

You cannot grovel in the worm's delights : 

You must take winged pleasures, winged pains. 

Are you not steadfast ? Will you live or die 

For aught below your royal heritage ? 

To him who holds the flickering brief torch 

That lights a beacon for the perishing. 

Aught else is crime. Are you a false Zincala ? 

Fed ALMA. 

Father, my soul is weak, the mist of tears 

Still rises to my eyes, and hides the goal 

Which to your undimmed sight is clear and changeless. 

But if I cannot plant resolve on hope 

It will stand firm on certainty of woe. 

I choose the ill that is most like to end 

With my poor being. Hopes have precarious life. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 209 

They are oft blighted, withered, snapped sheer off 
In vigorous growth and turned to rottenness. 
But faithfulness can feed on suffering, 
And knows no disappointment. Trust in me ! 
If it were needed, this poor trembling hand 
Should grasp the torch, — strive not to let it fall 
Though it were burning down close to my flesh, 
No beacon lighted yet : through the damp dark 
I should still hear the cry of gasping swimmers. 
Father, I will be true ! 

Zarca. 

I trust that word. 
And, for your sadness, — you are young, — the bruise 
Will leave no mark. The worst of misery 
Is when a nature framed for noblest things 
Condemns itself in youth to petty joys. 
And, sore athirst for air, breathes scanty life 
Gasping from out the shallows. You are saved 
From such poor doubleness. The life we choose 
Breathes high, and sees a full-arched firmament. 
Our deeds shall speak like rock-hewn messages, 
Teaching great purpose to the distant time. 
Now I must hasten back. I shall but speak 
To Nadar of the order he must keep 
In setting watch and victualling. The stars 
And the young moon must see me at my post. 
Nay, rest you here. Farewell, my younger self, — 
Strong-hearted daughter ! Shall I live in you 
When the earth covers me ? 

Fedalma. 

My father, death 
Should give your will divineness, make it strong 
With the beseechings of a mighty soul 



210 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

That left its work unfinished. Kiss me now : 

{They embrace, and she adds tremulously as they part,) 
And when you see fair hair be pitiful. (Exit Zarca.) 
(Fed ALMA seats herself on the han't, leans her head 
forward, and covers her face with her drapery. 
While she is seated thus, Hind a comes from the 
hank, with a hranch of musk roses in her hand. 
Seeing Fedalma with head hent and covered, 
she pauses, and hegins to move on tiptoe.) 

HiNDA. 

Our Queen ! Can she be crying ? There she sits 
As I did every day when my dog Saad 
Sickened and yelled, and seemed to yell so loud 
After we 'd buried him, I oped his grave. 

{She comes forward on tiptoe, kneels at Fedalma's 
feet, and emhraces them. Fed alma uncovers her 
head.) 

Fed alma. 
Hinda ! what is it ? 

HiNDA. 

Queen, a branch of roses, — 
So sweet, you '11 love to smell them. 'T was the last. 
I climbed the bank to get it before Tralla, 
And slipped and scratched my arm. But I don't mind. 
You love the roses, — so do I. I wish 
The sky would rain down roses, as they rain 
From off the shaken bush. Why will it not ? 
Then all the valley would be pink and white 
And soft to tread on. They would fall as light 
As feathers, smelling sweet ; and it would be 
Like sleeping and yet waking, all at once ! 
Over the sea. Queen, where we soon shall go. 
Will it rain roses ? 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 211 

Fed ALMA. 

No, my prattler, no ! 
It never will rain roses : when we want 
To have more roses we must plant more trees. 
But you want nothing, little one, — the world 
Just suits you as it suits the tawny squirrels. 
Come, you want nothing. 

HiNDA. 

Yes, I want more berries, — 
Keel ones, — to wind about my neck and arms 
When I am married, — on my ankles too 
I want to wind red berries, and on my head. 

Fed ALMA. 
Who is it you are fond of ? Tell me, now. 

Hind A. 
Queen, you know ! It could be no one else 
But Ismael. He catches birds, — no end ! 
Knows where the speckled fish are, scales the rocks, 
And sings and dances with me when I like. 
How should I marry and not marry him ? 

Fedalma. 
Should you have loved him, had he been a Moor, 
Or white Castilian ? 

HiNDA (starting to her feet, then kneeling again). 
Are you angry. Queen ? 
Say why you will think shame of your poor Hinda ? 
She 'd sooner be a rat and hang on thorns 
To parch until the wind had scattered her, 
Than be an outcast, spit at by her tribe. 

Fedalma. 
Hinda, I know you are a good Zincala. 
But would you part from Ismael ? leave him now 



212 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

If your chief bade you, — said it was for good 
To all your tribe that you must part from him ? 

Hind A {giving a sharp cry). 
Ah, will he say so ? 



Fedalma {almost fierce hi her 

Nay, child, answer me. 
Could you leave Ismael ? get into a boat 
And see the waters widen 'twixt you two 
Till all was water and you saw him not. 
And knew that you would never see him more ? 
If 't was your chief's command, and if he said 
Your tribe would all be slaughtered, die of plague, 
Of famine, — madly drink each other's blood .... 

Hind A {tremhling). 

Queen, if it is so, tell Ismael. 

Fedalma. 
You would obey, then ? part from him forever ? 

HiNDA. 

How could we live else ? With our brethren lost ? 
No marriage feast ? The day would turn to dark. 
Zincali cannot live without their tribe. 

1 must obey ! Poor Ismael — poor Hinda ! 
But will it ever be so cold and dark ? 

Oh, I would sit upon the rocks and cry, 
And cry so long that I could cry no more : 
Then I should go to sleep. 

Fedalma. 

No, Hinda, no ! 
Thou never shalt be called to part from him. 
I will have berries for thee, red and black, 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 213 

And I will be so glad to see thee glad, 
That earth will seem to hold enough of joy 
To outweigh all the pangs of those who part. 
Be comforted, bright eyes. See, I will tie 
These roses in a crown, for thee to wear. 

Hind A (clapping her hands, while FEDALMA^wfe the 
roses on her head). 
Oh, I 'm as glad as many little foxes, — 
I will find Ismael, and tell him all. {She runs off.) 

Fedalma {alone). 

She has the strength I lack. Within her world 

The dial has not stirred since first she woke : 

No changing light has made the shadows die, 

And taught her trusting soul sad difference. 

For her, good, right, and law are all summed up 

In what is possible ; life is one web 

Where love, joy, kindred, and obedience 

Lie fast and even, in one warp and woof 

AVith thirst and drinking, hunger, food, and sleep. 

She knows no struggles, sees no double path : 

Her fate is freedom, for her will is one 

With the Zincalo's law, the only law 

She ever knew. For me — oh, I have fire within, 

But on my will there falls the chilling snow 

Of thoughts that come as subtly as soft flakes. 

Yet press at last with hard and icy weight. 

I could be firm, could give myself the wrench 

And walk erect, hiding my life-long wound. 

If I but saw the fruit of all my pain 

With that strong vision which commands the soul. 

And makes great awe the monarch of desire. 

But now I totter, seeing no far goal : 

I tread the rocky pass, and pause and grasp, 



214 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Guided by flashes. When my father comes, 

And breathes into my soul his generous hope, — 

By his own greatness making life seem great, 

As the clear heavens bring sublimity, 

And show earth larger, spanned by that blue vast, — 

Resolve is strong : I can embrace my sorrow. 

Nor nicely weigh the fruit ; possessed with need 

Solely to do the noblest, though it failed, — 

Though lava streamed upon my breathing deed 

And buried it in night and barrenness. 

But soon the glow dies out, the warrior's music 

That vibrated as strength through all my limbs 

Is heard no longer ; over the wide scene 

There 's naught but chill gray silence, or the hum 

And fitful discord of a vulgar world. 

Then I sink helpless, — sink into the arms 

Of all sweet memories, and dream of bliss : 

See looks that penetrate like tones ; hear tones 

That flash looks with them. Even now I feel 

Soft airs enwrap me, as if yearning rays 

Of some far presence touched me with their warmth 

And brought a tender murmuring 

[While she mused, 
A figure came from out the olive-trees 
That bent close-whispering 'twixt the parted hills 
Beyond the crescent of thick cactus : paused 
At sight of her ; then slowly forward moved 
With careful step, and gently said, " Fed alma ! " 
Fearing lest fancy had enslaved her sense. 
She quivered, rose, but turned not. Soon again : 
'' Fed ALMA, it is Silva ! " Then she turned. 
He, with bared head and arms entreating, beamed 
Like morning on her. Vision held her still 
One moment, then with gliding motion swift, 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 215 

Inevitable as the melting stream's, 

She found her rest within his circling arms.] 

Fedalma. 
love, you are living, and believe in me ! 

Don Silva. 
Once more we are together. Wishing dies, — 
Stifled with bliss. 

Fedalma. 
You did not hate me, then, — 
Think me an ingrate, — think my love was small 
That I forsook you ? 

Don Silva. 

Dear, I trusted you 
As holy men trust God. You could do naught 
That was not pure and loving, — though the deed 
Might pierce me unto death. You had less trust, 
Since you suspected mine. 'T was wicked doubt. 

Fedalma. 
Nay, when I saw you hating me the fault 
Seemed in my lot, — the poor Zincala's, — her 
On whom you lavished all your wealth of love 
As price of naught but sorrow. Then I said, 
" 'T is better so. He will be happier ! " 
But soon that thought, struggling to be a hope, 
Would end in tears. 

Don Silva. 

It was a cruel thought. 
Happier ! True misery is not begun 
Until I cease to love thee. 

Fedalma. 

Silva! 



216 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Don Silva. 

Mine ! 
{They stand a moment or two in silence.) 

Fedalma. 
I thought I had so much to tell you, love, — 
Long eloquent stories, — how it all befell, — 
The solemn message, calling me away 
To awful spousals, where my own dead joy, 
A conscious ghost, looked on and saw me wed. 

Don Silva. 
Oh that grave speech would cumber our quick souls 
Like bells that waste the moments with their loudness. 

Fedalma. 
And if it all were said, 't would end in this, 
That I still loved you when I fled away. 
'T is no more wisdom than the little birds 
Make known by their soft twitter when they feel 
Each other's heart beat. 

Don Silva. 

All the deepest things 
We now say with our eyes and meeting pulse : 
Our voices need but prattle. 

Fedalma, 

I forget 
All the drear days of thirst in this one draught. 

{Again they are silent for a few moments.) 
But tell me how you came ? Where are your guards ? 
Is there no risk ? And now I look at you, 
This garb is strange .... 

Don Silva. 

I came alone. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 217 

Fed ALMA. 

Alone? 
Don Silva. 

Yes, — fled in secret. There was no way else 
To find you safely. 

Fedalma (letting one hand fall and moving a little 
from him with a look of sudden terror, while he 
clasps her more firmly by the other arm). 

Silva ! 

Don Silva. 

It is naught. 
Enough that I am here. Kow we will cling. 
What power shall hinder us ? You left me once 
To set your father free. That task is done, 
And you are mine again. I have braved all 
That I might find you, see your father, win 
His furtherance in bearing you away 
To some safe refuge. Are we not betrothed ? 

Fedalma. 

Oh I am trembling 'neath the rush of thoughts 
That come like griefs at morning, — look at me 
With awful faces, from the vanishing haze 
That momently had hidden them. 

Don Silva. 

What thoughts ? 
Fedalma. 
Forgotten burials. There lies a grave 
Between this visionary present and the past. 
Our joy is dead, and only smiles on us 
A loving shade from out the place of tombs. 



218 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Don Silva. 
Fedalma, your love faints, else aught that parts us 
Would seem but superstition. Love supreme 
Defies all sophistry, — risks avenging fires. 



faint. 



uenes aii sopnistry, — risKS avenging nres 
I have risked all things. But your love is 

Fedalma (retreating a little, but keeping his hand). 
Silva, if now between us came a sword. 
Severed my arm, and left our two hands clasped, 
This poor maimed arm would feel the clasp till death. 
What parts us is a sword .... 

(Zarca has been advancing in the background. 
He has drawn his sword, and now thrusts the 
naked blade between them. Silva lets go 
Fedalma's hand, and grasps his sword. Fe- 
dalma, startled at first, stands firmly, as if 
prepared to interpose between her father and 
the Duke.) 

Zaeca. 

Ay, 't is a sword 
That parts the Spanish noble and the true Zincala : 
A sword that was baptized in Christian blood. 
When once a band, cloaking with Spanish law 
Their brutal rapine, would have butchered us, 
And then outraged our women. 

{Resting the point of his sword 07i the gi'ound.) 
My lord Duke, 
I was a guest within your fortress once 
Against my will ; had entertainment too, — 
Much like a galley slave's. Pray, have you sought 
The poor Zincalo's camp, to find return 
For that Castilian courtesy ? or rather 
To make amends for all our prisoned toil 
By this great honor of your unasked presence ? 




" Ay, 't is a sword 
That parts the Spanish noble and the true Zineala." 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 219 



Don Silva. 



Chief, I have brought no scorn to meet your scorn. 
I came because love urged me, — that deep love 
I bear to her whom you call daughter, — her 
Whom I reclaim as my betrothed bride. 

Zakca. 

Doubtless you bring for final argument 

Your men-at-arms who will escort your bride ? 

Don Silva. 

I came alone. The only force I bring 
Is tenderness. Nay, I will trust besides 
In all the pleadings of a father's care 
To wed his daughter as her nurture bids. 
And for your tribe, — whatever purposed good 
Your thoughts may cherish, I will make secure 
With the strong surety of a noble's power : 
My wealth shall be your treasury. 

Zarca {with irony). 

My thanks ! 
To me you offer liberal price ; for her 
Your love's beseeching will be force supreme. 
She will go with you as a willing slave. 
Will give a word of parting to her father, 
Wave farewells to her tribe, then turn and say : 
" Now, my lord, I am nothing but your bride ; 
I am quite culled, have neither root nor trunk, 
Now wear me with your plume ! " 

Don Silva. 

Yours is the wrong 
Feigning in me one thought of her below 
The highest homage. I would make my rank 



220 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

The pedestal of her worth ; a noble's sword, 
A noble's honor, her defence ; his love 
The life-long sanctuary of her womanhood. 

Zarca. 

I tell you, were you King of Aragon, 

And won my daughter's hand, your higher rank 

Would blacken her dishonor. 'T were excuse 

If you were beggared, homeless, spit upon. 

And so made even with her people's lot ; 

For then she would be lured by want, not wealth, 

To be a wife amongst an alien race 

To whom her tribe owes curses. 

Don Silva. 

Such blind hate 
Is fit for beasts of prey, but not for men. 
My hostile acts against you should but count 
As ignorant strokes against a friend unknown ; 
And for the wrongs inflicted on your tribe 
• By Spanish edicts or the cruelty 
Of Spanish vassals, am I criminal ? 
Love comes to cancel all ancestral hate. 
Subdues all heritage, proves that in mankind 
Union is deeper than division. 

Zarca. 

Ay, 

Such love is common : I have seen it oft, — 
Seen many women rend the sacred ties 
That bind them in high fellowship with men, 
Making them mothers of a people's virtue ; 
Seen them so levelled to a handsome steed 
That yesterday was Moorish property. 
To-day is Christian, — wears new-fashioned gear. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 221 

Neighs to new feeders, and will prance alike 

Under all banners, so the banner be 

A master's who caresses. Such light change 

You call conversion ; we Zincali call 

Conversion infamy. Our people's faith 

Is faithfulness ; not the rote-learned belief 

That we are heaven's highest favorites, 

But the resolve that, being most forsaken 

Among the sons of men, we will be true 

Each to the other, and our common lot. 

You Christians burn men for their heresy : 

Our vilest heretic is that Zincala 

Who, choosing ease, forsakes her people's woes. 

The dowry of my daughter is to be 

Chief woman of her tribe, and rescue it. 

A bride with such a dowry has no match 

Among the subjects of that Catholic Queen 

Who would have Gypsies swept into the sea 

Or else would have them gibbeted. 

Don Silva. 

And you, 
Fedalma's father, — you who claim the dues 
Of fatherhood, — will offer up her youth 
To mere grim idols of your fantasy ! 
Worse than all Pagans, with no oracle 
To bid you murder, no sure good to win, 
Will sacrifice your daughter, — to no god, 
But to a hungry fire within yoiir soul, 
Mad hopes, blind hate, that like possessing fiends 
Shriek at a name ! This sweetest virgin, reared 
As garden flowers, to give the sordid world 
Glimpses of perfectness, you snatch and thrust 
On dreary wilds ; in visions mad, proclaim 
Semiramis of Gypsy wanderers ; 



222 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Doom, with a broken arrow in her heart, 
To wait for death 'mid squalid savages : 
For what ? You would be savior of your tribe ; 
So said Fedalma's letter ; rather say, 
You have the will to save by ruling men. 
But first to rule ; and with that flinty will 
You cut your way, though the first cut you give 
Gash your child's bosom. 

(While SiLVA has been speaking, tvith groiving 
passion, Fed alma has placed herself between 
him and her father.) 

Zarca {with calm irony). 

You are loud, my lord ! 
You only are the reasonable man ; 
You have a heart, I none. Fedalma's good 
Is what you see, you care for ; while I seek 
No good, not even my own, iirged on by naught 
But hellish hunger, which must still be fed 
Though in the feeding it I suffer throes. 
Fume at your own opinion as you will : 
I speak not now to you, but to my daughter. 
If she still calls it good to mate with you, 
To be a Spanish duchess, kneel at court, 
And hope her beauty is excuse to men 
When women whisper, '' She was a Zincala ; " 
If she still calls it good to take a lot 
That measures joy for her as she forgets 
Her kindred and her kindred's misery, 
Nor feels the softness of her downy couch 
Marred by remembrance that she once forsook 
The place that she was born to, — let her go ! 
If life for her still lies in alien love. 
That forces her to shut her soul from truth 
As men in shameful pleasures shut out day ; 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 223 

And death, for her, is to do rarest deeds. 

Which, even failing, leave new faith to men, 

The faith in human hearts, — then, let her go ! 

She is my only offspring ; in her veins 

She bears the blood her tribe has trusted in ; 

Her heritage is their obedience, 

And if I died, she might still lead them forth 

To plant the race her lover now reviles 

Where they may make a nation, and may rise 

To grander manhood than his race can show ; 

Then live a goddess, sanctifying oaths, 

Enforcing right, and ruling consciences, 

By law deep-graven in exalting deeds, 

Through the long ages of her people's life. 

If she can leave that lot for silken shame, 

For kisses honeyed by oblivion, — 

The bliss of drunkards or the blank of fools, — 

Then let her go ! You Spanish Catholics, 

When you are cruel, base, and treacherous. 

For ends not pious, tender gifts to God, 

And for men's wounds offer much oil to churches : 

We have no altars for such healing gifts 

As soothe the heavens for outrage done on earth. 

We have no priesthood and no creed to teach 

That the Zincala who might save her race 

And yet abandons it, may cleanse that blot, 

And mend the curse her life has been to men. 

By saving her own soul. Her one base choice 

Is wrong unchangeable, is poison shed 

Where men must drink, shed by her poisoning will. 

Now choose, Fedalma ! 

[But her choice was made. 
Slowly, while yet her father spoke, she moved 
From where oblique with deprecating arms 



224 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

She stood between the two who swayed her heart : 

Slowly she moved to choose sublimer pain ; 

Yearning, yet shrinking ; wrought upon by awe, 

Her own brief life seeming a little isle 

Eemote through visions of a wider world 

With fates close-crowded ; firm to slay her joy 

That cut her heart with smiles beneath the knife, 

Like a sweet babe foredoomed by prophecy. 

She stood apart, yet near her father : stood 

Hand clutching hand, her limbs all tense with will 

That strove against her anguish, eyes that seemed a soul 

Yearning in death towards him she loved and left. 

He faced her, pale with passion and a will 

Fierce to resist whatever might seem strong 

And ask him to submit : he saw one end, — 

He must be conqueror ; monarch of his lot 

And not its tributary. But she spoke 

Tenderly, pleadingly.] 

Fed ALMA. 
My lord, farewell ! 
'T was well we met once more ; now we must part. 
I think we had the chief of all love's joys 
Only in knowing that we loved each other. 

Don Silva. 

I thought we loved with love that clings till death, 
Clings as brute mothers bleeding to their young, 
Still sheltering, clutching it, though it were dead ; 
Taking the death-wound sooner than divide. 
I thought we loved so. 

Fed ALMA. 

Silva, it is fate. 
Great Fate has made me heiress of this woe. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 225 

You must forgive Fedalma all her debt : 

She is quite beggared : if she gave herself, 

'T would be a self corrupt with stifled thoughts 

Of a forsaken better. It is truth 

My father speaks : the Spanish noble's wife 

Would be a false Zincala. I will bear 

The heavy trust of my inheritance. 

See, 't was my people's life that throbbed in me ; 

An unknown need stirred darkly in my soul, 

And made me restless even in my bliss. 

Oh, all my bliss was in our love ; but now 

I may not taste it : some deep energy 

Compels me to choose hunger. Dear, farewell ! 

I must go with my people. 

[She stretched forth 
Her tender hands, that oft had lain in his, 
The hands he knew so well, that sight of them 
Seemed like their touch. But he stood still as death ; 
Locked motionless by forces opposite : 
His frustrate hopes still battled with despair ; 
His will was prisoner to the double grasp 
Of rage and hesitancy. All the travelled way 
Behind him, he had trodden confident. 
Ruling munificently in his thought 
This Gypsy father. Now the father stood 
Present and silent and unchangeable 
As a celestial portent. Backward lay 
The traversed road, the town's forsaken wall, 
The risk, the daring ; all around him now 
Was obstacle, save where the rising flood 
Of love close pressed by anguish of denial 
Was sweeping him resistless ; save where she 
Gazing stretched forth her tender hands, that hurt 
Like parting kisses Then at last he spoke.] 



226 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Don Silva. 

No, I can never take those hands in mine, 
Then let them go forever ! 

Fedalma. 

It must be. 
. We may not make this world a paradise 
By walking it together hand in hand. 
With eyes that meeting feed a double strength. 
We must be only joined by pains divine 
Of spirits blent in mutual memories. 
Silva, our joy is dead. 

Don Silva. 

But love still lives. 
And has a safer guard in wretchedness. 
Fedalma, women know no perfect love : 
Loving the strong, they can forsake the strong ; 
Man clings because the being whom he loves 
Is weak and needs him. I can never turn 
And leave you to your difficult wandering ; 
■ Know that you tread the desert, bear the storm, 
Shed tears, see terrors, faint with weariness, 
Yet live away from you. I should feel naught 
But your imagined pains : in my own steps 
See your feet bleeding, taste your silent tears. 
And feel no presence but your loneliness. 
No, I will never leave you ! 

Zarca. 

My lord Duke, 
I have been patient, given room for speech, 
Bent not to move my daughter by command, 
Save that of her own faithfulness. But now, 
All further words are idle elegies 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 227 

Unfitting times of action. You are here 

With the safe conduct of that trust you showed 

Coming alone to the Zincalo's camp. 

I would fain meet all trust with courtesy 

As well as honor ; but my utmost power 

Is to afford you Gypsy guard to-night 

Within the tents that keep the northward lines, 

And for the morrow, escort on your way 

Back to the Moorish bounds. 

Don Silva. 

What if my words 
Were meant for deeds, decisive as a leap 
Into the current ? It is not my wont 
To utter hollow words, and speak resolves 
Like verses banded in a madrigal. 
I spoke in action first : I faced all risks 
To find Fedalma. Action speaks again 
When I, a Spanish noble, here declare 
That I abide with her, adopt her lot. 
Claiming alone fulfilment of her vows 
As my betrothed wife. 

Fedalma (wresting herself from him, and standing 
opposite with a look of terror). 
Nay, Silva, nay ! 
You could not live so ; spring from your high place .... 

Don Silva. 

Yes, I have said it. And you, chief, are bound 
By her strict vows, no stronger fealty 
Being left to cancel them. 

Zarca. 

Strong words, my lord ! 
Sounds fatal as the hammer-strokes that shape 



228 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

The glowing metal : they must shape your life. 
That you will claim my daughter is to say 
That you will leave your Spanish dignities, 
Your home, your wealth, your people, to become 
A true Zincalo ; share your wanderings. 
And be a match meet for my daughter's dower 
By living for her tribe ; take the deep oath 
That binds you to us ; rest within our camp. 
Nevermore hold command of Spanish men. 
And keep my orders. See, my lord, you lock 
A many-winding chain, — a heavy chain. 

Don Silva. 

I have but one resolve : let the rest follow. 
What is my rank ? To-morrow it will be filled 
By one who eyes it like a carrion bird. 
Waiting for death. I shall be no more missed 
Than waves are missed that leaping on the rock 
Find there a bed and rest. Life 's a vast sea 
That does its mighty errand without fail. 
Panting in unchanged strength though waves are chang- 
ing. 
And I have said it. She shall be my people. 
And where she gives her life I will give mine. 
She shall not live alone, nor die alone. 
I will elect my deeds, and be the liege, 
Not of my birth, but of that good alone 
I have discerned and chosen. 

Zaeca. 

Our poor faith 
Allows not rightful choice, save of the right 
Our birth has made for us. And you, my lord, 
Can still defer your choice, for some days' space. 
I march perforce to-night ; you, if you will. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 229 

Under Zincalo guard, can keep the heights 
With silent Time that slowly opes the scroll 
Of change inevitable ; taking no oath 
Till my accomplished task leaves me at large 
To see you keep your purpose or renounce it, 

Don Silva. 
Chief, do I hear amiss, or does your speech 
Ring with a doubleness which I had held 
Most alien to you ? You would put me off, 
And cloak evasion with allowance ? No ! 
We will complete our pledges. I will take 
That oath which binds not me alone, but you, 
To join my life forever with Fedalma's. 

Zarca. 
I wrangle not, — time presses. But the oath 
Will leave you that same post upon the heights ; 
Pledged to remain there while my absence lasts. 
You are agreed, my lord ? 

Don Silva. 

Agreed to all. 

Zarca. 
Then I will give the summons to our camp. 
We will adopt you as a brother now. 
In the Zincalo's fashion. [Uxit Zarca. 

(Silva takes Fedalma's hands.) 

Fed ALMA. 

O my lord ! 
I think the earth is trembling : naught is firm. 
Some terror chills me with a shadow^y grasp. 
Am I about to wake, or do you breathe 
Here in this valley ? Did the outer air 



230 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Vibrate to fatal words, or did they shake 
Only my dreaming soul ? You a Zincalo ? 

Don Silva. 

Is then your love too faint to raise belief 
Up to that height ? 

Fed ALMA. 

Silva, had you but said 
That you would die, — that were an easy task 
For you who oft have fronted death in war. 
But so to live for me, — you, used to rule, — 
You could not breathe the air my father breathes : 
His presence is subjection. Go, my lord ! 
Fly, while there yet is time. Wait not to speak. 
I will declare that I refused your love, — 
Would keep no vows to you .... 

Don Silva. 

It is too late. 
You shall not thrust me back to seek a good 
Apart from you. And what good ? Why, to face 
Your absence, — all the want that drove me forth 
To work the will of a more tyrannous friend 
Than any uncowled father. Life at least 
Gives choice of ills ; forces me to defy, 
But shall not force me to a weak defiance. 
The power that threatened you, to master me, 
That scorches like a cave-hid dragon's breath, 
Sure of its victory in spite of hate, 
Is what I last will bend to, — most defy. 
Your father has a chieftain's ends, befitting 
A soldier's eye and arm : were he as strong 
As the Moors' prophet, yet the prophet too 
Had younger captains of illustrious fame 
Among the infidels. Let him command, 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 231 

For when your father speaks, I shall hear you. 
Life were no gain if you were lost to me : 
I would straight go and seek the Moorish walls, 
Challenge their bravest, and embrace swift death. 
The Glorious Mother and her pitying Son 
Are not Inquisitors, else their heaven were hell. 
Perhaps they hate their cruel worshippers, 
And let them feed on lies. I '11 rather trust 
They love you and have sent me to defend you. 

Fed ALMA. 

I made my creed so, just to suit my mood 
And smooth all hardship, till my father came 
And taught my soul by ruling it. Since then 
I cannot weave a dreaming happy creed 
Where our love's happiness is not accursed. 
My father shook my soul awake. And you, — 
What the Zincala may not quit for you, 
I cannot joy that you should quit for her. 

Don Silva. 

Oh, Spanish men are not a petty band 
Where one deserter makes a fatal breach. 
Men, even nobles, are more plenteous 
Than steeds and armor ; and my weapons left 
Will find new hands to wield them. Arrogance 
Makes itself champion of mankind, and holds 
God's purpose maimed for one hidalgo lost. 
See where your father comes and brings a crowd 
Of witnesses to hear my oath of love ; 
The low red sun glows on them like a fire ; 
This seems a valley in some strange new world. 
Where we have found each other, my Fedalma. 



BOOK IV. 

^^1"0W twice the day had sunk from off the hills 

-L\ While Silva kept his watch there, with the band 

Of strong Zincali. When the sun was high 

He slept, then, waking, strained impatient eyes 

To catch the promise of some moving form 

That might be Juan, — Juan who went and came 

To soothe two hearts, and claimed naught for his own : 

Friend more divine than all divinities, 

Quenching his human thirst in others' joy. 

All through the lingering nights and pale chill dawns 

Juan had hovered near ; with delicate sense. 

As of some breath from every changing mood, 

Had spoken or kept silence ; touched his lute 

To hint of melody, or poured brief strains 

That seemed to make all sorrows natural, 

Hardly worth weeping for, since life was short, 

And shared by loving souls. Such pity welled 

Within the minstrel's heart of light-tongued Juan 

For this doomed man, who with dream-shrouded eyes 

Had stepped into a torrent as a brook. 

Thinking to ford it and return at will, 

And now waked helpless in the eddying flood, 

Hemmed by its raging hurry. Once that thought, 

How easy wandering is, how hard and strict 

The homeward way, had slipped from reverie 

Into low-murmured song ; — (brief Spanish song 

'Scaped him as sighs escape from other men.) 



234 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Push off the boat, 
Quit, quit the shore. 

The stars will guide us back : — 
gathering cloud, 
wide, wide sea, 

waves that keep no track ! 

On through the pines ! 
The pillared woods. 

Where silence breathes siveet breath : — 
labyrinth, 

sunless gloom. 

The other side of death ! 

Such plaintive song had seemed to please the Duke, - 

Had seemed to melt all voices of reproach 

To sympathetic sadness ; but his moods 

Had grown more fitful with the growing hours, 

And this soft murmur had the iterant voice 

Of heartless Echo, whom no pain can move 

To say aught else than we have said to her. 

He spoke, impatient : " Juan, cease thy song. 

Our whimpering poesy and small-paced tunes 

Have no more utterance than the cricket's chirp 

For souls that carry heaven and hell within." 

Then Juan, lightly : '' True, my lord, I chirp 

For lack of soul ; some hungry poets chirp 

For lack of bread. 'T were wiser to sit down 

And count the star-seed, till I fell asleep 

With the cheap wine of pure stupidity." 

And Silva, checked by courtesy : " Nay, Juan, 

Were speech once good, thy song were best of speech. 

I meant, all life is but poor mockery : 

Action, place, power, the visible wide world 

Are tattered masquerading of this self, 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 235 

This pulse of conscious mystery : all change, 

Whether to high or low, is change of rags. 

But for her love, I would not take a good 

Save to burn out in battle, in a flame 

Of madness that would feel no mangled limbs, 

And die not knowing death, but passing straight — 

Well, well, to other flames — in purgatory." 

Keen Juan's ear caught the self-discontent 

That vibrated beneath the changing tones 

Of life-contemning scorn. Gently he said : 

" But with her love, my lord, the world deserves 

A higher rate ; were it but masquerade. 

The rags were surely worth the wearing ? " " Yes. 

No misery shall force me to repent 

That I have loved her," 

So with wilful talk, 
Fencing the wounded soul from beating winds 
Of truth that came unasked, companionship 
Made the hours lighter. And the Gypsy guard. 
Trusting familiar Juan, were content, 
At friendly hint from him, to still their songs 
And busy jargon round the nightly fires. 
Such sounds the quick-conceiving poet knew 
Would strike on Silva's agitated soul 
Like mocking repetition of the oath 
That bound him in strange clanship with the tribe 
Of human panthers, flame-eyed, lithe-limbed, fierce, 
Unrecking of time-woven subtleties 
And high tribunals of a phantom-world. 

But the third day, though Silva southward gazed 
Till all the shadows slanted towards him, gazed 
Till all the shadows died, no Juan came. 
Now in his stead came loneliness, and thought 
Inexorable, fastening with firm chain 



236 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

What is to what hath been. Now awful Night, 
Ancestral mystery of mysteries, came down 
Past all the generations of the stars, 
And visited his soul with touch more close 
Than when he kept that younger, briefer watch. 
Under the church's roof beside his arms, 
And won his knighthood. 

Well, this solitude, 
This company with the enduring universe, 
Whose mighty silence carrying all the past' 
Absorbs our history as with a breath. 
Should give him more assurance, make him strong 
In all contempt of that poor circumstance 
Called human life, — customs and bonds and laws 
Wherewith men make a better or a worse, 
Like children playing on a barren mound 
Feigning a thing to strive for or avoid. 
Thus Silva urged, answering his many-voiced self. 
Whose hungry needs, like petulant multitudes. 
Lured from the home that nurtured them to strength. 
Made loud insurgence. Thus he called on Thought, 
On dexterous Thought, with its swift alchemy 
To change all forms, dissolve all prejudice 
Of man's long heritage, and yield him up 
A crude fused world to fashion as he would. 
Thought played him double ; seemed to wear the yoke 
Of sovereign passion in the noonday height 
Of passion's prevalence ; but served anon 
As tribune to the larger soul which brought 
Loud-mingled cries from every human need 
That ages had instructed into life. 
He could not grasp Night's black blank mystery 
And wear it for a spiritual garb 
Creed-proof : he shuddered at its passionless touch. 
On solitary souls, the universe 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 



237 



Looks down inhospitable ; the human heart 

Finds nowhere shelter but in human kind. 

He yearned towards images that had breath in them, 

That sprang warm palpitant with memories 

From streets and altars, from ancestral homes. 

Banners and trophies and the cherishing rays 

Of shame and honor in the eyes of man. 

These made the speech articulate of his soul, 

That could not move to utterance of scorn 

Save in words bred by fellowship ; could not feel 

Eesolve of hardest constancy to love, 

The firmer for the sorrows of the loved. 

Save by concurrent energies high-wrought 

To sensibilities transcending sense 

Through closest citizenship, and long-shared pains 

Of far-off laboring ancestors. In vain 

He sought the outlaw's strength, and made a right _ 

Contemning that hereditary right 

Which held dim habitations in his frame. 

Mysterious haunts of echoes old and far. 

The voice divine of human loyalty. 

At home, among his people, he had played 

In sceptic ease with saints and images 

And thunders of the Church that deadened fell 

Through screens of priests plethoric. Awe, unscathed 

By deeper trespass, sbpt without a dream. 

But for such trespass as made outcasts, still 

The ancient Furies lived with faces new 

And lurked with lighter slumber than of old 

O'er Catholic Spain, the land of sacred oaths 

That might be broken. 

Now the former life 
Of close-linked fellowship, the life that made 
His full-formed self, as the impregnant sap 
Of years successive frames the full-branched tree, — 



238 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Was present in one whole ; and that great trust 
His deed had broken turned reproach on him 
From faces of all witnesses who heard 
His uttered pledges ; saw him hold high place 
Centring reliance ; use rich privilege 
That bound him like a victim-nourished god 
By tacit covenant to shield and bless ; 
Assume the Cross and take his knightly oath 
Mature, deliberate : faces human all, 
And some divine as well as human : His 
Who hung supreme, the suffering Man divine 
Above the altar ; Hers, the Mother pure 
Whose glance informed his masculine tenderness 
With deepest reverence ; the Archangel armed, 
Trampling man's enemy : all heroic forms 
That fill the world of faith with voices, hearts, 
And high companionship, to Silva now 
Made but one inward and insistent world 
With faces of his peers, with court and hall 
And deference, and reverent vassalage 
And filial pieties, — one current strong. 
The warmly mingled life-blood of his mind, 
Sustaining him even when he idly played 
With rules, beliefs, charges, and ceremonies 
As arbitrary fooling. Such revenge 
Is wrought by the long travail of mankind 
On him who scorns it, and would shape his life 
Without obedience. 

But his warrior's pride 
Would take no wounds save on the breast. He faced 
The fatal crowd : " I never shall repent ! 
If I have sinned my sin was made for me 
By men's perverseness. There 's no blameless life 
Save for the passionless, no sanctities 
But have the selfsame roof and props with crime, 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 239 

Or have their roots close interlaced with vileness. 

If I had loved her less, been more a craven, 

I had kept my place and won the easy praise 

Of a true Spanish noble. But I loved. 

And, loving, dared, — not Death the warrior 

But Infamy that binds and strips and holds 

The brand and lash. I have dared all for her. 

She was my good, — what other men call heaven 

And for the sake of it bear penances ; 

Nay, some of old were baited, tortured, flayed 

To win their heaven. Heaven was their good. 

She, mine. And I have braved for her all fires 

Certain or threatened ; for I go away 

Beyond the reach of expiation, — far away 

From sacramental blessing. Does God bless 

'No outlaw ? Shut his absolution fast 

In human breath ? Is there no God for me 

Save Him whose cross I have forsaken ? — Well, 

I am forever exiled, — but with her. 

She is dragged out into the wilderness ; 

I, with my love, will be her providence. 

I have a right to choose my good or ill, 

A right to damn myself ! The ill is mine. 

I never will repent !".... 

Thus Silva, inwardly debating, all his ear 

Turned into audience of a twofold mind ; 

For even in tumult full-fraught consciousness 

Had plenteous being for a Self aloof 

That gazed and listened, like a soul in dreams 

Weaving the wondrous tale it marvels at. 

But oft the conflict slackened, oft strong Love 

With tidal energy returning laid 

All other restlessness : Fedalma came 

And with her visionary presence brought 

What seemed a waking in the warm spring morn. 



240 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

He still was pacing on the stony earth 
Under the deepening night ; the fresh-lit fires 
Were flickering on dark forms and eyes that met 
His forward and his backward tread ; but she, 
She was within him, making his whole self 
Mere correspondence with her image : sense, 
In all its deep recesses where it keeps 
The mystic stores of ecstasy, was transformed 
To memory that killed the hour, like wine. 
Then Silva said : " She, by herself, is life. 
What was rjiy joy before I loved her, — what 
Shall Heaven lure us with, love being lost ? " — 
For he was young. 

But now around the fires 
The Gypsy band felt freer ; Juan's song 
Was no more there, nor Juan's friendly ways 
For links of amity 'twixt their wild mood 
And this strange brother, this pale Spanish duke. 
Who with their Gypsy badge upon his breast 
Took readier place within their alien hearts 
As a marked captive, who would fain escape. 
And Nadar, who commanded them, had known 
The prison in Bedmar. So now, in talk 
Foreign to Spanish ears, they said their minds. 
Discussed their chief's intent, the lot marked out 
For this new brother. Would he wed their queen 
And some denied, saying their queen would wed 
A true Zincalo duke, — one who would join 
Their bands in Telemsdn. But others thought 
Young Hassan was to wed her ; said their chief 
Would never trust this noble of Castile, 
Who in his very swearing was forsworn. 
And then one fell to chanting, in wild notes 
Eecurrent like the moan of outshut winds. 
The adjuration they were wont to use 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 241 

To any Spaniard who would join their tribe : 
Words of plain Spanish, lately stirred anew 
And ready at new impulse. Soon the rest, 
Drawn to the stream of sound, made unison 
Higher and lower, till the tidal sweep 
Seemed to assail the Duke and close him round 
With force demonic. All debate till now 
Had wrestled with the urgence of that oath 
Already broken ; now the newer oath 
Thrust its loud presence on him. He stood still, 
Close baited by loud-barking thoughts, — fierce hounds 
Of that Supreme, the irreversible Past. 

The ZiNCALi sing. 

Brother, hear and take the curse, 
Curse of soul's and body's throes, 
If you hate not all our foes. 
Cling not fast to all our woes, 
Turn a false Zincalo ! 

May you he accurst 
By hunger and by thirst, 
By spiked pangs, 
Starvation's fangs 
Clutching you alone 
When none but peering vultures hear your moan. 

Curst by burning hands, 

Curst by aching brow, 

When on sea-wide sands 

Fever lays you low ; 

By the maddened brain 
When the running icater glistens, 
And the deaf ear listens, listens, 

Prisoned fire within the vein, 

On the tongue and on the lip 



242 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Not a sip 
From the earth or skies ; 

Hot the desert lies 
Pressed into your anguish, 
Narrowing earth and narrowing sky 
Into lonely misery. 
Lonely may you languish 
Through the day and through the night, 
Hate the darkness, hate the light, 
Pray and find no ear, 
Feel no brother near. 
Till on death you cry. 
Death who passes by, 
And anew you groan. 
Scaring the vultures all to leave you living lone 
Curst by soul's and body's throes 
If you love the dark men's foes. 
Cling not fast to all the dark men's woes, 
Turn a false Zincalo ! 
Swear to hate the cruel cross, 

The silver cross ! 
Glittering, laughing at the blood 

Shed below it in a flood 
When it glitters over Moorish porches ; 

Laughing at the scent of flesh 
When it glitters where the fagot scorches^ 
Burning life's mysterious mesh : 
Blood of wandering Israel, 
Blood of wandering Ism-ael, 
Blood, the drink of Christian scorn, 
Blood of wanderers, sons of mom 
Where the life of men began : 
Swear to hate the cross ! — 
Sign of all the wanderers' foes, 
Sign of all the wanderers' woes, — 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 243 

Else its curse light on tjou ! 

Else the curse upon yo\i light 

Of its sharp red-sworded might. 

May it lie a blood-red blight 

On all things within your sight : 

On the white haze of the morn, 

On the meadows and the corn, 

On the sun and on the moon, 

On the clearness of the noon, 

On the darkness of the night. 

May it fill your aching sight, — 

Red-cross sivord and sword blood-red, — 

Till it press upon your head, 

Till it lie within your brain, 

Piercing sharp, a cross of pain. 

Till it lie upon your heart. 
Burning hot, a cross of fire. 

Till from sense in every part 
Pains have clustered like a stinging swarm 

In the cross'' s form, 
And you see naught hit the cross of blood. 
And you feel naught but the cross of fire : 

Curst by all the cross's throes 

If you hate not all our foes, 

Cling not fast to all our woes, 
Turn a false Zincalo ! 

A fierce delight was in the Gypsies' chant : 
They thought no more of Silva, only felt 
Like those broad-chested rovers of the night 
Who pour exuberant strength upon the air. 
To him it seemed as if the hellish rhythm, 
Revolving in long curves that slackened now, 
Kow hurried, sweeping round again to slackness, 
Would cease no more. What use to raise his voice, 



244 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Or grasp his weapon ? He was powerless now, 
With these new comrades of his future, — he 
Who had been wont to have his wishes feared 
And guessed at as a hidden law for men. 
Even the passive silence of the night 
That left these howlers mastery, even the moon, 
Rising and staring Avith a helpless face, 
Angered him. He was ready now to fly 
At some loud throat, and give the signal so 
For butchery of himself. 

But suddenly 
The sounds that travelled towards no foreseen clos 
Were torn right off and fringed into the night ; 
Sharp Gypsy ears had caught the onward strain 
Of kindred voices joining in the chant. 
All started to their feet and mustered close, 
Auguring long-waited summons. It was come : 
The summons to set forth and join their chief. 
Fedalma had been called, and she was gone 
Under safe escort, Juan following her : 
The camp — the women, children, and old men — 
Were moving slowly southward on the way 
To Almeria. Silva learned no more. 
He marched perforce ; what other goal was his 
Than where Fedalma was ? And so he marched 
Through the dim passes and o'er rising hills, 
Not knowing whither, till the morning came. 



The Moorish hall in the castle at Bedmdr. The morning 
ttvilight dimly shows stains of blood on the white mar- 
hie floor ; yet there has been a careful restoration of 
order among the sparse objects of furniture. Stretched 
on mats lie three corpses, the faces bare, the bodies 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 245 

covered with mantles. A little way off, with rolled 
matting for a pillow, lies Zarca, sleeping. His chest 
and arms are hare ; his weapons, turban, mail-shirt, 
and other upper garments lie on the floor beside him. 
In the outer gallery Zincali are pacing, at intervals, 
past the arched openings. 

Zarca {half rising and resting his elboiv on the pillow 

while he looks round). 
The morning ! I have slept for full three hours ; 
Slept without dreams, save of my daughter's face. 
Its sadness waked me. Soon she will be here, 
Soon must outlive the worst of all the pains 
Bred by false nurture in an alien home, — 
As if a lion in fangless infancy 
Learned love of creatures that with fatal growth 
It scents as natural prey, and grasps and tears. 
Yet with heart-hunger yearns for, missing them. 
She is a lioness. And they — the race 
That robbed me of her — reared her to this pain. 
He will be crushed and torn. There was no help. 
But she, my child, will bear it. Por strong souls 
Live like fire-hearted suns to spend their strength 
In furthest striving action ; breathe more free 
In mighty anguish than in trivial ease. 
Her sad face waked me. I shall meet it soon 
Waking .... 

{He rises and stands looking at the corpses.) 
As now I look on these pale dead, 
These blossoming branches crushed beneath the fall 
Of that broad trunk to which I laid my axe 
With fullest foresight. So will I ever face 
In thought beforehand to its utmost reach 
The consequences of my conscious deeds ; 
So face them after, bring them to my bed, 



246 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

And never drug my soul to sleep with lies. 
If they are cruel, they shall be arraigned 
By that true name ; they shall be justified 
By my high purpose, by the clear-seen good 
That grew into my vision as I grew, 
And makes my nature's function, the full pulse 
Of my Zincalo soul. The Catholics, 
Arabs, and Hebrews have their god apiece 
To fight and conquer for them, or be bruised 
Like Allah, and yet keep avenging stores 
, Of patient wrath. Zincali have no god 
Who speaks to them and calls them his, unless 
I Zarca carry living in my frame 
The power divine that chooses them and saves. 
Life and more life unto the chosen, death 
To all things living that would stifle them ! 
So speaks each god that makes a nation strong ; 
Burns trees and brutes and slays all hindering men. 
The Spaniards boast their god the strongest now ; 
They win most towns by treachery, make most slaves, 
Burn the most vines and men, and rob the most. 
I fight against that strength, and in my turn 
Slay these brave young who duteously strove. 
Cruel ? ay, it is cruel. But, how else ? 
To save, we kill ; each blow we strike at guilt 
Hurts innocence with its shock. Men might well seek 
For purifying rites ; even pious deeds 
Need washing. But my cleansing waters flow 
Solely from my intent. 

(i/e turns awaij from the bodies to where his gar- 
ments lie, but does not lift them.) 

And she must suffer ! 
But she has looked on the unchangeable and bowed 
Her head beneath the yoke. And she will walk 
No more in chilling twilight, for to-day 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 247 

Rises oiir sun. The difficult night is past ; 

We keep the bridge no more, but cross it ; inarch 

Forth to a land where all our wars shall be 

With greedy obstinate plants that will not yield 

Fruit for their nurture. All our race shall come 

From north, west, east, a kindi-ed multitude, 

And make large fellowship, and raise inspired 

The shout divine, the unison of resolve. 

So I, so she, will see our race redeemed. 

And their keen love of family and tribe 

Shall no more thrive on cunning, hide and lurk 

In petty arts of abject hunted life. 

But grow heroic in the sanctioning light, 

And feed with ardent blood a nation's heart. 

That is my work : and it is well begun. 

On to achievement ! 

(^He takes up the mail-shirt, and looks at it, then 
throws it down again. ) 

No, I '11 none of you ! 
To-day there '11 be no fighting. A few hours, 
And I shall doff these garments of the Moor : 
Till then I will walk lightly and breathe high. 

Sephardo (appearing at the archway leading into the 

outer gallery). 
You bade me wake you ... . 

Zarca. 

Welcome, Doctor; see. 
With that small task I did but beckon you 
To graver work. You know these corpses ? 

Sephardo. 

Yes. 
I would they were not corpses. Storms will lay 
The fairest trees and leave the withered stumps. 



248 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

This Alvar and the Duke were of one age, 
And very loving friends. I minded not 
The sight of Don Diego's corpse, for death 
Gave him some gentleness, and had he lived 
I had still hated him. But this young Alvar 
Was doubly noble, as a gem that holds 
Rare virtues in its lustre, and his death 
Will pierce Don Silva with a poisoned dart. 
This fair and curly youth was Arias, 
A son of the Pachecos ; this dark face — 

Zabca. 
Enough ! you know their names. I had divined 
That they were near the Duke, most like had served 
My daughter, were her friends. So rescued them 
From being flung upon the heap of slain. 
Beseech you. Doctor, if you owe me aught 
As having served your people, take the pains 
To see these bodies buried decently. 
And let their names be writ above their graves, 
As those of brave young Spaniards who died well. 
I needs must bear this Avomanhood in my heart, — 
Bearing my daughter there. For once she prayed, — 
'T was at our parting, — " When you see fair hair 
Be pitiful." And I am forced to look 
On fair heads living and be pitiless. 
Your service, Doctor, will be done to her. 

Sephardg. 

A service doubly dear. For these young dead, 
And one less happy Spaniard who still lives, 
Are offerings which I wrenched from out my heart, 
Constrained by cries of Israel : while my hands 
Rendered the victims at command, my eyes 
Closed themselves vainly, as if vision lay 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 249 

Through those poor loopholes only. I will go 
And see the graves dug by some cypresses. 

Zarca. 
Meanwhile the bodies shall rest here. Farewell. 

{Exit Sephardo.) 
Nay, 't is no mockery. She keeps me so 
From hardening with the hardness of my acts. 
This Spaniard shrouded in her love, — I would 
He lay here too that I might pity him. 



Morning. — The Pla^a Santiago in Bedmdr. A crowd of 
townsmen forming an outer circle : within, Zincali 
and Moorish soldiers drawn up round the central space. 
On the higher ground in front of the church a stake 
with fagots heaped, and at a little distance a gibbet. 
Moorish music. Zarca enters, xvearing his gold neck- 
lace with the Gypsy badge of the flaming torch over 
the dress of a Moorish captain, accompanied by a 
small band of armed Zincali, who fall aside and range 
themselves with the other soldiers while he takes his 
stand in front of the stake and gibbet. The music 
ceases, and there is expectant silence. 

Zarca. 
Men of Bedmar, well-wishers, and allies, 
Whether of Moorish or of Hebrew blood, 
Who, being galled by the hard Spaniard's yoke, 
Have welcomed our quick conquest as release, 
I, Zarca, the Zincalo chieftain, hold 
By delegation of the Moorish King 
Supreme command within this town and fort. 
Nor will I, with false show of modesty, 



250 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Profess myself unworthy of this post, 

For so I should but tax the giver's choice. 

And, as ye know, while I was prisoner here, 

Forging the bullets meant for Moorish hearts, 

But likely now to reach another mark, 

I learned the secrets of the town's defence. 

Caught the loud whispers of your discontent, 

And so could serve the purpose of the Moor 

As the edge's keenness serves the weapon's weight. 

And my Zincali, lynx-eyed, lithe of limb, 

Tracked out the high Sierra's hidden path. 

Guided the hard ascent, and were the first 

To scale the walls and brave the showering stones. 

In brief, I reached this rank through service done 

By thought of mine and valor of my tribe. 

Yet hold it but in trust, with readiness 

To lay it down ; for I and my Zincali 

AVill never pitch our tents again on land 

The Spaniard grudges us : we seek a home 

Where we may spread and ripen like the corn 

By blessing of the sun and spacious earth. 

Ye wish us well, I think, and are our friends ? 

Crowd. 
Long life to Zarca and his strong Zincali ! 

Zarca. 

Now, for the cause of our assembling here. 
'T was my command that rescued from your hands 
That Spanish Prior and Inquisitor 
Whom in fierce retribution you had bound 
And meant to burn, tied to a planted cross. 
I rescued him with promise that his death 
Should be more signal in its justice, — made 
Public in fullest sense, and orderly. 



THE SPAlflSH GYPSY. 251 

Here, then, you see the stake, — slow death by fire ; 

And there a gibbet, — swift death by the cord. 

Now hear me. Moors and Hebrews of Bedmar, 

Our kindred by the warmth of Eastern blood ! 

Punishing cruel wrong by cruelty 

We copy Christian crime. Vengeance is just : 

Justly we rid the earth of human fiends 

Who carry hell for pattern in their souls. 

But in high vengeance there is noble scorn ; 

It tortures not the torturer, nor gives 

Iniquitous payment for iniquity. 

The great avenging angel does not crawl 

To kill the serpent with a mimic fang ; 

He stands erect, with sword of keenest edge 

That slays like lightning. So too we will slay 

The cruel man ; slay him because he works 

Woe to mankind. And I have given command 

To pile these fagots, not to burn quick flesh, 

But for a sign of that dire wrong to men 

Which arms our wrath with justice. While, to show 

This Christian worshipper that we obey 

A better law than his, he shall be led 

Straight to the gibbet and to swiftest death. 

For I, the chief of the Zincali, will, 

My people shed no blood but what is shed 

In heat of battle or in judgment strict 

With calm deliberation on the right. 

Such is my will, and if it please you, — well. 

Crowd. 
It pleases us. Long life to Zarca ! 

Zarca. 

Hark ! 
The bell is striking, and they bring even now 
The prisoner from the fort. What, Nadar ? 



262 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 



Nadar (has appeared, cutting the crowd, and advanc- 
ing toward Zakca till he is near enough to speak in 
an undertone). 

Chief, 

I have obeyed yoou' word, have followed it 

As water does the furrow in the rock. 



Your band is here ? 



'T was so I ordered. 



Zarca. 

Nadar. 

Yes, and the Spaniard too. 
Zarca. 



Nadar. 

Ay, but this sleek hound, 
Who slipped his collar off to join the wolves, 
Has still a heart for none but kennelled brutes. 
He rages at the taking of the town, 
Says all his friends are butchered ; and one corpse 
He stumbled on, — well, I would sooner be 
A dead Zincalo's dog, and howl for him. 
Than be this Spaniard. Rage has made him whiter. 
One townsman taunted him with his escape. 
And thanked him for so favoring us 

Zarca. 

Enough 
You gave him my command that he should wait 
Within the castle, till I saw him ? 

Nadar. 

Yes. 
But he defied me, broke away, ran loose 
I know not whither ; he may soon be here. 
I came to warn you, lest he work us harm. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 253 

Zabca. 

Fear not, I know the road I travel by : 

Its turns are no surprises. He who rules 

Must humor full as much as lie commands ; 

Must let men vow impossibilities ; 

Grrant folly's prayers that hinder folly's wish 

And serve the ends of wisdom. Ah, he comes ! 

[Sweeping like some pale herald from the dead. 
Whose shadow-nurtured eyes, dazed by full light, 
See naught without, but give reverted sense 
To the soul's imagery, Silva came, 
The wondering people parting wide to get 
Continuous sight of him as he passed on, — 
This high hidalgo, who through blooming years 
Had shone on men with planetary calm, 
Believed in with all sacred images 
And saints that must be taken as they were, 
Though rendering meagre service for men's praise, 
Bareheaded now, carrying an unsheathed sword, 
And on his breast, where late he bore the cross, 
Wearing the Gypsy badge, his form aslant. 
Driven, it seemed, by some invisible chase, 
Right to the front of Zarca. There he paused.] 

Don Silva. 

Chief, you are treacherous, cruel, devilish, — 
Relentless as a curse that once let loose 
From lips of wrath, lives bodiless to destroy. 
And darkly traps a man in nets of guilt 
Which could not weave themselves in open day 
Before his eyes. Oh, it was bitter Avrong 
To hold this knowledge locked within your mind, 
To stand with waking eyes in broadest light. 
And see me, dreaming, shed my kindred's blood. 



254 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

'T is horrible that men with hearts and hands 

Should smile in silence like the firmament 

And see a fellow-mortal draw a lot 

On which themselves have written agony ! 

Such injury has no redress, no healing 

Save what may lie in stemming further ill. 

Poor balm for maiming ! Yet I come to claim it. 

Zarca. 
First prove your wrongs, and I will hear your claim. 
Mind, you are not commander of Bedmar, 
Nor duke, nor knight, nor anything for me, 
Save one Zincalo, one of my subject tribe, 
Over whose deeds my will is absolute. 
You chose that lot, and would have railed at me 
Had I refused it you : I warned you first 
What oaths you had to take .... 

Don Silva. 

You never warned me 
That you had linked yourself with Moorish men 
To take this town and fortress of Bedmar, — 
Slay my near kinsmen, him who held my place, 
Our house's heir and guardian, — slay my friend, 
My chosen brother, — desecrate the church 
Where once my mother held me in her arms, 
Making the holy chrism holier 
With tears of joy that fell upon my brow ! 
You never warned .... 

Zarca. 

I warned you of your oath. 
You shrank not, were resolved, were sure your place 
Would never miss you, and you had your will. 
I am no priest, and keep no consciences : 
I keep my own place and my own command. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 255 

Don Silva. 
I said my place would never miss me — yes ! 
A thousand Spaniards died on that same day 
And were not missed ; their garments clothed the backs 
That else were bare .... 

Zarca. 

But you were just the one 
Above the thousand, had you known the die 
That fate was throwing then. 

Don Silva. 

You knew it, — you ! 
With fiendish knowledge, smiling at the end. 
You knew what snares had made my flying steps 
Murderous ; you let me lock my soul with oaths 
Which your acts made a hellish sacrament. 
I say, you knew this as a fiend would know it, 
And let me damn myself. 

Zarca. 

The deed was done 
Before you took your oath, or reached our camp, — 
Done when you slipped in secret from the post 
'T was yours to keep, and not to meditate 
If others might not fill it. For your oath, 
What man is he who brandishes a sword 
In darkness, kills his friends, and rages then 
Against the night that kept him ignorant ? 
Should I, for one unstable Spaniard, quit 
My steadfast ends as father and as chief ; 
Renounce my daughter and my people's hope, 
Lest a deserter should be made ashamed ? 

Don Silva. 
Your daughter, — great God ! I vent but madness. 
The past will never change. I come to stem 



256 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Harm that may yet be hindered. Chief — this stake — 
Tell me who is to die ! Are you not bound 
Yourself to him you took in fellowship ? 
The town is yours ; let me but save the blood 
That still is warm in men who were my .... 

Zarca. 

Peace ! 
They bring the prisoner, 

[Zarca waved his arm 
With head averse, in peremptory sign 
That 'twixt them now there should be space and silence. 
Most eyes had turned to where the prisoner 
Advanced among his guards ; and Silva too 
Turned eagerly, all other striving quelled 
By striving with the dread lest he should see 
His thought outside him. And he saw it there. 
The prisoner was Father Isidor : 
The man whom once he fiercely had accused 
As author of his misdeeds, — whose designs 
Had forced him into fatal secrecy. 
The imperious and inexorable Will 
Was yoked, and he who had been pitiless 
To Silva's love, was led to pitiless death. 
hateful victory of blind wishes, — prayers 
Which hell had overheard and swift fulfilled ! 
The triumph was a torture, turning all 
The strength of passion into strength of pain. 
Remorse was born within him, that dire birth 
Which robs all else of nurture, — cancerous, 
Forcing each pulse to feed its anguish, changing 
All sweetest residues of a healthy life 
To fibrous clutches of slow misery. 
Silva had but rebelled, — he was not free ; 
And all the subtle cords that bound his soul 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 257 

Were tightened by the strain of one rash leap 

Made in defiance. He accused no more, 

But dumbly shrank before accusing throngs 

Of thoughts, the impetuous recurrent rush 

Of all his past-created, unchanged self. 

The Father came bareheaded, frocked, a rope 

Around his neck, — but clad with majesty, 

The strength of resolute undivided souls 

Who, owning law, obey it. In his hand 

He bore a crucifix, and praying, gazed 

Solely on that white image. But his guards 

Parted in front, and paused as they approached 

The centre, where the stake was. Isidor 

Lifted his eyes to look around him, — calm, 

Prepared to speak last words of willingness 

To meet his death, — last words of faith unchanged, 

That, working for Christ's kingdom, he had wrought 

Righteously. But his glance met Silva's eyes 

And drew him. Even images of stone 

Look living with reproach on him who maims, 

Profanes, defiles them. Silva penitent 

Moved forward, would have knelt before the man 

Who still "was one with all the sacred things 

That came back on him in their sacredness, 

Kindred, and oaths, and awe, and mystery. 

But, at the sight, the Father thrust the cross 

With deprecating act before him, and his face 

Pale-quivering, flashed out horror like white light 

Flashed from the angel's sword that dooming drave 

The sinner to the wilderness. He spoke.] 

Father Isidor. 

Back from me, traitorous and accursed man ! 
Defile not me, who grasp the holiest, 



258 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

With touch or breath ! Thou foulest murderer ! 
Fouler than Cain who struck his brother down 
In jealous rage, thou for thy base delight 
Hast oped the gate for wolves to come and tear 
Uncounted brethren,, weak and strong alike, 
The helpless priest, the warrior all unarmed 
Against a faithless leader : on thy head 
Will rest the sacrilege, on thy soul the blood. 
These blind Zincali, misbelievers. Moors, 
Are but as Pilate and his soldiery ; 
Thou, Judas, weighted with that heaviest crime 
Which deepens hell ! I warned you of this end. 
A traitorous leader, false to God and man, 
A knight apostate, you shall soon behold 
Above your people's blood the light of flames 
Kindled by you to burn me, — burn the flesh 
Twin with your father's. most Avretched man ! 
Whose memory shall be of broken oaths, — 
Broken for lust, — I turn away mine eyes 
Forever from you. See, the stake is ready : 
And I am ready too. 

Don Silva. 

It shall not be ! 
{Raising his sword he rushes in front of the 
gtiards who are advancing, and impedes 
them.') 
If you are human. Chief, hear my demand ! 
Stretch not my soul upon the endless rack 
Of this man's torture ! 

Zarca. 

Stand aside, my lord ! 
Put up your sword. You vowed obedience 
To me, your chief. It was your latest vow. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 259 

Don Silva. 
No ! liew me from the spot, or fasten me 
Amid the fagots too, if he must burn. 

Zarca. 
What should befall that persecuting monk 
Was fixed before you came : no cruelty, 
No nicely measured torture, weight for weight 
Of injury, no luscious-toothed revenge 
That justiiies the injurer by its joy : 
I seek but rescue and security 
For harmless men, and such security 
Means death to vipers and inquisitors. 
These fagots shall but innocently blaze 
In sign of gladness, when this man is dead, 
That one more torturer has left the earth. 
'T is not for infidels to burn live men 
And ape the rules of Christian piety. 
This hard oppressor shall not die by fire : 
He mounts the gibbet, dies a speedy death, 
That, like a transfixed dragon, he may cease 
To vex mankind. Quick, guards, and clear the path ! 

[As well-trained hounds that hold their fleetness tense 

In watchful, loving fixity of dark eyes, 

And move with movement of their master's will, 

The Gypsies with a wavelike swiftness met 

Around the Father, and in wheeling course 

Passed beyond Silva to the gibbet's foot, 

Behind their chieftain. Sudden left alone 

With weapon bare, the multitude aloof, 

Silva was mazed in doubtful consciousness. 

As one who slumbering in the day awakes 

From striving into freedom, and yet feels 

His sense half captive to intangible things ; 

Then with a flxish of new decision sheathed 



260 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

His futile naked weapon, and strode quick 
To Zarca, speaking with a voice new-toned, 
The struggling soul's hoarse, suffocated cry 
Beneath the grappling anguish of despair.] 

Don Silva. 

Zincalo, devil, blackest iniidel ! 

You cannot hate that man as you hate me ! 

Finish your torture, — take me, — lift me up 

And let the crowd spit at me, — every Moor 

Shoot reeds at me, and kill me with slow death 

Beneath the midday fervor of the sun, — 

Or crucify me with a thieving hound, — 

Slake your hate so, and I will thank it : spare me 

Only this man ! 

Zarca. 
Madman, I hate you not. 
But if I did, my hate were poorly served 
By my device, if I should strive to mix 
A bitterer misery for you than to taste 
With leisure of a soul in unharmed limbs 
The flavor of your folly. For my course, 
It has a goal, and takes no truant path 
Because of you. I am your Chief : to me 
You are but a Zincalo in revolt. 

Don Silva. 
No, I am no Zincalo ! I disown 
The name I took in madness. Here I tear 
This badge away. I am a Catholic knight, 
A Spaniard who will die a Spaniard's death ! 

[Hark ! while he casts the badge upon the ground 
And tramples on it, Silva hears a shout : 
Was it a shout that threatened him ? He looked 
From out the dizzying flames of his own ragp 




" Down 
Fell the great Chief, and Silva, staggering back, 
Heard not the shriek of the Zincali." 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 261 

In hope of adversaries, — • and he saw above 

The form of Father Isidor upswung 

Convulsed with martyr throes ; and knew the shout 

For wonted exultation of the crowd 

When malefactors die, — or saints, or heroes. 

And now to him that white-frocked murdered form 

Which hanging judged him as its murderer, 

Turned to a symbol of his guilt, and stirred 

Tremors till then unwaked. With sudden snatch 

At something hidden in his breast, he strode 

Right upon Zarca : at the instant, down 

Fell the great Chief, and Silva, staggering back, 

Heard not the shriek of the Zincali, felt 

Not their fierce grasp, — heard, felt but Zarca's words 

Which seemed his soul outleaping in a cry 

And urging men to run like rival waves 

Whose rivalry is but obedience. 

Zakca (as he falls). 
My daughter ! call her ! Call my daughter ! 

Nadar (stipporting Zarca and crying to the Gypsies 
who have clutched Silva). 

Stay! 
Tear not the Spaniard, tie him to the stake : 
Hear what the Chief shall bid us, — there is time ! 

[Swiftly they tied him, pleasing vengeance so 

With promise that would leave thenj free to watch 

Their stricken good, their Chief stretched helplessly 

Pillowed upon the strength of loving limbs. 

He heaved low groans, but would not spend his breath 

In useless words : he waited till she came, 

Keeping his life within the citadel 

Of one great hope. And now around him closed 



262 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

(But in wide circle, checked by loving fear) 

His people all, holding their wails suppressed 

Lest death belie ved-in should be over-bold : 

All life hung on their Chief, — he would not die ; 

His image gone, there were no wholeness left 

To make a world of for Zincali's thought. 

Eager they stood, but hushed ; the outer crowd 

Spoke only in low murmurs, and some climbed 

And clung with legs and arms on perilous coigns, 

Striving to see where that colossal life 

Lay panting, — lay a Titan struggling still 

To hold and give the precious hidden fire 

Before the stronger grappled him. Above 

The young bright morning cast athwart white walls. 

Her shadows blue, and with their clear-cut line. 

Mildly inexorable as the dial-hand's 

Measured the shrinking future of an hour 

Which held a shrinking hope. And all the while 

The silent beat of time in each man's soul 

Made aching pulses. 

But the cry, " She comes ! " 
Parted the crowd like waters : and she came. 
Swiftly as once before, inspired with joy. 
She flashed across the space and made new light. 
Glowing upon the glow of evening. 
So swiftly now she came, inspired with woe, 
Strong with the strength of all her father's pain. 
Thrilling her as with fire of rage divine 
And battling energy. She knew, — saw all : 
The stake with Silva bound, — her father pierced, — 
To this she had been born : the second time 
Her father called her to the task of life. 

She knelt beside him. Then he raised himself. 
And on her face there flashed from his the light 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 26,8 

As of a star that waned and flames anew 

In mighty dissolution : 't was the flame ■ ) 

Of a surviving trust, in agony. 

He spoke the parting prayer that was command, 

Must sway her will, and reign invisibly.] 

Zarca. 

My daughter, you have promised, — you will live .,■■ 

To save our people. In my garments here 

I carry written pledges from the Moor : 

He will keep faith in Spain and Africa. 

Your weakness may be stronger than my strength, 

Winning more love. I cannot tell the end. 

I held my people's good within my breast. 

Behold, now I deliver it to you. 

See, it still breathes unstrangled, — if it dies, 

Let not your failing will be murderer. Rise, 

And tell our people now I wait in pain, — 

I cannot die until I hear them say 

They will obey you. 

[Meek, she pressed her lips 
With slow solemnity upon his brow, 
Sealing her pledges. Firmly then she rose. 
And met her people's eyes with kindred gaze. 
Dark-flashing, fired by effort strenuous 
Trampling on pain.] 

Fedalma. 

Zincali all, who hear 1 
Your Chief is dying : I his daughter live 
To do his dying will. He asks you now 
To promise me obedience as jonv Queen, 
That we may seek the land he won for us, 
And live the better life for which he toiled. 
Speak now, and fill my father's dying ear ■ ; 



264 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

With promise that you will obey him dead, 
Obeying me his child. 

[Straightway arose 
A shout of promise, sharpening into cries 
That seemed to plead despairingly with death.] 

The Zincali. 
We will obey ! Our Chief shall never die ! 
We will obey him, — will obey our Queen ! 

[The shout unanimous, the concurrent rush 

Of many voices, quiring shook the air 

With multitudinous wave : now rose, now fell, 

Then rose again, the echoes following slow, 

As if the scattered brethren of the tribe 

Had caught afar and joined the ready vow. 

Then some could hold no longer, but must rush 

To kiss his dying feet, and some to kiss 

The hem of their Queen's garment. But she raised 

Her hand to hush them. " Hark ! your Chief may speak 

Another wish." Quickly she kneeled again. 

While they upon the ground kept motionless, 

With head outstretched. They heard his words ; for now, 

Grasping at Nadar's arm, he spoke more loud, 

As one who, having fought and conquered, hurls 

His strength away with hurling off his shield.] 

Zarca. 

Let loose the Spaniard ! give him back his sword ; 
He cannot move to any vengeance more, — 
His soul is locked 'twixt two opposing crimes. 
I charge you let him go unharmed and free 
Now through your midst 

[With that he sank again, — 
His breast heaved strongly tow'rd sharp sudden falls, 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 265 

And all his life seemed needed for each breath : 
Yet once he spoke.] 

My daughter, lay your arm 
Beneath my head, — so, — bend and breathe on me. 
I cannot see you more, — the Night is come. 
Be strong, — remember, — I can only — die. 

[His voice went into silence, but his breast 

Heaved long and moaned : its broad strength kept a life 

That heard naught, saw naught, save what once had 

been. 
And what might be in days and realms afar, — 
Which now in pale procession faded on 
Toward the thick darkness. And she bent above 
In sacramental watch to see great Death, 
Companion of her future, who would wear 
Forever in her eyes her father's form. 

And yet she knew that hurrying feet had gone 

To do the Chief's behest, and in her soul 

He who was once its lord was being jarred 

With loosening of cords, that would not loose 

The tightening torture of his anguish. This, — 

Oh she knew it ! — knew it as martyrs knew 

The prongs that tore their flesh, while yet their tongues 

Refused the ease of lies. In moments high 

Space widens in the soul. And so she knelt, 

Clinging with piety and awed resolve 

Beside this altar of her father's life. 

Seeing long travel under solemn suns 

Stretching beyond it ; never turned her eyes, 

Yet felt that Silva passed ; beheld his face 

Pale, vivid, all alone, imploring her 

Across black waters fathomless. 



266 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

And he passed. 
The Gypsies made wide pathway, shrank aloof 
As those who fear to touch the thing they hate, 
Lest hate triumphant, mastering all the limbs, 
Should tear, bite, crush, in spite of hindering will. 
Slowly he walked, reluctant to be safe 
And bear dishonored life which none assailed ; 
Walked hesitatingly, all his frame instinct 
With high-born spirit, never used to dread 
Or crouch for smiles, yet stung, yet quivering 
With helpless strength, and in his soul convulsed 
By visions where pale horror held a lamp 
Over wide-reaching crime. Silence hung round : 
It seemed the Pla^a hushed itself to hear 
His footsteps and the Chief's deep dying breath. 
Eyes quickened in the stillness, and the light 
Seemed one clear gaze upon his misery. 
And yet he cou.ld not pass her without pause : 
One instant he must pause and look at her ; 
But with that glance at her averted head, 
New-urged by pain he turned away and went. 
Carrying forever with him what he fled, — 
Her murdered love, — her love, a dear wronged ghost, 
Facing him, beauteous, 'mid the throngs of hell, 

fallen and forsaken ! were no hearts 

Amid that crowd, mindful of what had been ? — 

Hearts such as wait on beggared royalty. 

Or silent watch by sinners who despair ? 

Silva had vanished. That dismissed revenge 
Made larger room for sorrow in fierce hearts ; 
And sorrow filled them. For the Chief was dead. 
The mighty breast subsided slow to calm, 
Slow from the face the ethereal spirit waned, 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 267 

As wanes the parting glory from the heights, 
And leaves them in their pallid majesty. 
Fedalma kissed the marble lips, and said, 
"He breathes no more." And then a long loud wail 
Poured out uj)on the morning, made her light 
Ghastly as smiles on some fair maniac's face 
Smiling unconscious o'er her bridegroom's corse. 
The wailing men in eager press closed round, 
And made a shadowing pall beneath the sun. 
They lifted reverent the prostrate strength, 
Sceptred anew by death. Fedalma walked 
Tearless, erect, following the dead, — her cries 
Deep smothering in her breast, as one who guides 
Her children through the wilds, and sees and knows 
Of danger more than they, and feels more pangs. 
Yet shrinks not, groans not, bearing in her heart 
Their ignorant misery and their trust in her. 







" Their sails 
Like broad wings poised." 



BOOK V. 

THE eastward rocks of Almeria's bay- 
Answer long farewells of the travelling sun 
With softest glow as from an inward pulse 
Changing and flushing : all the Moorish ships 
Seem conscious too, and shoot out sudden shadows ; 
Their black hulls snatch a glory, and their sails 
Show variegated radiance, gently stirred 
Like broad wings poised. Two galleys moored apart 
Show decks as busy as a home of ants 
Storing new forage ; from their sides the boats 
Slowly pushed off, anon with flashing oar 
Make transit to the quay's smooth-quarried edge, 
Where thronging Gypsies are in haste to lade 
Each as it comes with grandames, babes, and wives, 
Or with dust-tinted goods, the company 
Of wandering years. Naught seems to lie unmoved, 
For 'mid the throng the lights and shadows play. 
And make all surface eager, while the boats 
Sway restless as a horse that heard the shouts 
And surging hum incessant. Naked limbs 
With beauteous ease bend, lift, and throw, or raise 
High signalling hands. The black-haired mother steps 
Athwart the boat's edge, and with opened arms, 
A wandering Isis outcast from the gods. 
Leans towards her lifted little one. The boat 
Full-laden cuts the waves, and dirge-like cries 
Rise and then fall within it as it moves 
From high to lower and from bright to dark. 
Hither and thither, grave white-turbaned Moors 
Move helpfully, and some bring welcome gifts, 



270 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Bright stuffs and cutlery, and bags of seed 

To make new waving crops in Africa. 

Others aloof with folded arms slow-eyed 

Survey man's labor, saying, " God is great ; " 

Or seek with question deep the Gypsies' root, 

And whether their false faith, being small, will prove 

Less damning than the copious false creeds 

Of Jews and Christians : Moslem subtlety 

Found balanced reasons, warranting suspense 

As to whose hell was deepest, — 't was enough 

That there was room for all. Thus the sedate. 

The younger heads were busy with the tale 

Of that great Chief whose exploits helped the Moor. 

And, talking still, they shouldered past their friends. 

Following some lure which held their distant gaze 

To eastward of the quay, where yet remained 

A low black tent close guarded all around 

By armed Zincali. Fronting it above, 

Raised by stone steps that sought a jutting strand, 

Fedalma stood and marked with anxious watch 

Each laden boat the remnant lessening 

Of cargo on the shore, or traced the course 

Of Nadar to and fro in hard command 

Of noisy tumult ; imaging oft anew 

How much of labor still deferred the hour 

When they must lift the boat and bear aAvay 

Her father's coffin, and her feet must quit 

This shore forever. Motionless she stood. 

Black-crowned with wreaths of many-shadowed hair ; 

Black-robed, but wearing wide upon her breast 

Her father's golden necklace and his badge. 

Her limbs were motionless, but in her eyes 

And in her breathing lip's soft tremulous curve 

Was intense motion as of prisoned fire 

Escaping subtly in outleaping thought. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. '2 

She watches anxiously, and yet she dreams : 

The busy moments now expand, now shrink 

To narrowing swarms within the refluent space 

Of changeful consciousness. For in her thought 

Already she has left the fading shore. 

Sails with her people, seeks an unknown land, 

And bears the burning length of weary days 

That parching fall upon her father's hope, 

Which she must plant and see it wither only, — 

Wither and die. She saw the end begun. 

Zincali hearts were not unfaithful : she 

Was centre to the savage loyalty 

Which vowed obedience to Zarca dead. 

But soon their natures missed the constant stress 

Of his command, that, while it fired, restrained 

By urgency supreme, and left no play 

To fickle impulse scattering desire. 

They loved their Queen, trusted in Zarca's child, 

Would bear her o'er the desert on their arms 

And think the weight a gladsome victory ; 

But that great force which knit them into one. 

The invisible passion of her father's soul, 

That wrought them visibly into its will, 

And would have bound their lives with permanence, 

Was gone. Already Hassan and two bands, 

Drawn by fresh baits of gain, had newly sold 

Their service to the Moors, despite her call, 

Known as the echo of her father's will, 

To all the tribe, that they should pass with her 

Straightway to Telemsan. They were not moved 

By worse rebellion than the wilful wish 

To fashion their own service ; they still meant 

To come when it should suit them. But she said, 

This is the cloud no bigger than a hand. 

Sure-threatening, In a little while, the tribe 



272 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

That was to be the ensign of the race, 
And draw it into conscious union, 
Itself would break in small and scattered bands 
That, living on scant prey, would still disperse 
And propagate forgetfulness. Brief years, 
And that great purpose fed with vital fire 
That might have glowed for half a century, 
Subduing, quickening, shaping, like a sun, — 
Would be a faint tradition, flickering low 
In dying memories, fringing with dim light 
The nearer dark. 

Far, far the future stretched 
Beyond that busy present on the quay. 
Far her straight path beyond it. Yet she watched 
To mark the growing hour, and yet in dream 
Alternate she beheld another track, 
And felt herself unseen pursuing it 
Close to a wanderer, who with haggard gaze 
Looked out on loneliness. The backward years — 
Oh she would not forget them — would not drink 
Of waters that brought rest, while he far off 
Remembered. "Father, I renounced the joy, — 
You must forgive the sorrow." 

So she stood, 
Her struggling life compressed into that hour. 
Yearning, resolving, conquering ; though she seemed 
Still as a tutelary image sent 
To guard her people and to be the strength 
Of some rock-citadel. 

Below her sat 
Slim mischievous Hinda, happy, red-bedecked 
With row of berries, grinning, nodding oft, 
And shaking high her small dark arm and hand 
Responsive to the black-maned Ismael, 
Who held aloft his spoil, and clad in skins 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 273 

Seemed the Boy-prophet of the wilderness 

Escaped from tasks prophetic. But anon 

Hinda would backward turn upon her knees, 

And like a pretty loving hound would bend 

To fondle her Queen's feet, then lift her head 

Hoping to feel the gently pressing palm 

Which touched the deeper sense. Fedalma knew, — 

From out the black robe stretched her speaking hand 

And shared the girl's content. 

So the dire hours 
Burdened with destiny, — the death of hopes 
Darkening long generations, or the birth 
Of thoughts undying, — such hours sweep along 
In their aerial ocean measureless 
Myriads of little joys, that ripen sweet 
And soothe the sorrowful spirit of the world. 
Groaning and travailing with the painful birth 
Of slow redemption. 

But emerging now 
From eastward fringing lines of idling men 
Quick Juan lightly sought the upward steps 
Behind Fedalma, and two paces off, 
With head uncovered, said in gentle tones, 
" Lady Fedalma ! " — (Juan's password now 
Used by no other,) and Fedalma turned, 
Knowing who sought her. He advanced a step, 
And meeting straight her large calm questioning gaze, 
Warned her of some grave purport by a face 
That told of trouble. Lower still he spoke. 

Juan. 

Look from me, lady, towards a moving form 

That quits the crowd and seeks the lonelier strand, — 

•A tall and gray-clad pilgrim .... 



274 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

[Solemnly 
His low tones fell on her, as if she passed 
Into religious dimness among tombs, 
And trod on names in everlasting rest. 
Lingeringly she looked, and then with voice 
Deep and yet soft, like notes from some long chord 
Responsive to thrilled air, said :] 

Fedalma. 

It is he ! 

[Juan kept silence for a little space. 
With reverent caution, lest his lighter grief 
Might seem a wanton touch upon her pain. 
But time was urging him with visible flight. 
Changing the shadows : he must utter all.] 

Juan. 
That man was young when last I pressed his hand, — 
In that dread moment when he left Bedmar. 
He has aged since : the week has made him gray. 
And yet I knew him, — knew the white-streaked hair 
Before I saw his face, as I should know 
The tear-dimmed writing of a friend. See now, — 
Does he not linger, — pause ? — perhaps expect .... 

[Juan plead timidly : Fedalma's eyes 

Flashed ; and through all her frame there ran the shock 

Of some sharp-wounding joy, like his who hastes 

And dreads to come too late, and comes in time 

To press a loved hand dying. She was mute 

And made no gesture : all her being paused 

In resolution, as some leonine wave 

That makes a moment's silence ere it leaps.] 

Juan. 
He came from Carthagena, in a boat 
Too slight for safety ; yon small two-oared boat 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 276 

Below the rock ; the fisher-boy within 

Awaits his signal. But the pilgrim waits .... 

Fedalma. 
Yes, I will go ! — Father, I owe him this, 
For loving me made all his misery. 
And we will look once more, — will say farewell 
As in a solemn rite to strengthen us 
For our eternal parting. Juan, stay 
Here in my place, to warn me were there need. 
And, Hinda, follow me ! 

[All men who watched 
Lost her regretfully, then drew content 
From thought that she must quickly come again. 
And filled the time with striving to be near. 
She, down the steps, along the sandy brink 
To where he stood, walked firm ; with quickened step 
The moment when each felt the other saw. 
He moved at sight of her : their glances met ; 
It seemed they could no more remain aloof 
Than nearing waters hurrying into one. 
Yet their steps slackened and they paused apart. 
Pressed backward by the force of memories 
Which reigned supreme as death above desire. 
Two paces off they stood and silently 
Looked at each other. Was it well to speak ? 
Could speech be clearer, stronger, tell them more 
Than that long gaze of their renouncing love ? 
They passed from silence hardly knowing how ; 
It seemed they heard each other's thought before.] 

Don Silva. 
I go to be absolved, to have my life 
Washed into fitness for an offering 
To injured Spain. But I have naught to give 



276 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

For that last injury to her I loved 

Better than I loved Spain, I am accurst 

Above all sinners, being made the curse 

Of her I sinned for. Pardon ! Penitence ! 

When they have done their utmost, still beyond 

Out of their reach stands Injury unchanged 

And changeless. I should see it still in heaven, — 

Out of my reach, forever in my sight : 

Wearing your grief, 't would hide the smiling seraphs. 

I bring no puling prayer, Fedalma, — ask 

No balm of pardon that may soothe my soul 

For others' bleeding wounds : I am not come 

To say, " Forgive me : " you must not forgive, 

For you must see me ever as I am, — 

Your father's .... 

Fedalma. 

Speak it not ! Calamity 
Comes like a deluge and o'erfloods our crimes, 
Till sin is hidden in woe. You — I — we two, 
(rrasping we knew not what, that seemed delight, 
Opened the sluices of that deep. 

Don Silva. 

AVe two? — 
Fedalma, you were blameless, helpless. 

Fedalma. 

No! 
It shall not be that you did aught alone. 
For when we loved I willed to reign in you, 
And I was jealous even of the day 
If it could gladden you apart from me. 
And so, it must be that I shared each deed 
Our love was root of. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY, 277 



Don Silva. 



Dear ! you share the woe, — 
Nay, the worst dart of vengeance fell on you. 

Fedalma. 

Vengeance ! She does but sweep us with her skirts, — 

She takes large space, and lies a baleful light 

Revolving with long years, — sees children's children, 

Blights them in their prime. Oh, if two lovers leaned 

To breathe one air and spread a pestilence. 

They would but lie two livid victims dead 

Amid the city of the dying. We 

With our poor petty lives have strangled one 

That ages watch for vainly. 

Don Silva. 

Deep despair 
Fills all your tones as with slow agony. 
Speak words that narrow anguish to some shape : 
Tell me what dread is close before you ? 

Fedalma. 

None, 
No dread, but clear assurance of the end. 
My father held within his mighty frame 
A people's life : great futures died with him 
Never to rise, until the time shall ripe 
Some other hero with the will to save 
The lost Zincali. 

Don Silva. 

Yet your people's shout — 
I heard it — sounded as the plenteous rush 
Of full-fed sources, shaking their wild souls 
With power that promised sway. 



278 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Fedalma. 

Ah yes, that shout 
Came from full hearts : they meaut obedience. 
But they are orphaned : their poor childish feet 
Are vagabond in spite of love, and stray 
Forgetful after little lures. For me, — 
I am but as the funeral urn that bears 
The ashes of a leader. 

Don Silva. 

great God ! 
What am I but a miserable brand 

Lit by mysterious wrath ? I lie cast down 
A blackened branch upon the desolate ground 
Where once I kindled ruin. I shall drink 
No cup of purest water but will taste 
Bitter with thy lone hopelessness, Fedalma. 

Fed alma. 

Nay, Silva, think of me as one who sees 
A light serene and strong on one sole path 

Which she will tread till death 

He trusted me, and I will keep his trust : 

My life shall be its temple. I will plant 

His sacred hope within the sanctuary 

And die its priestess, — though I die alone, 

A hoary woman on the altar step, 

Cold 'mid cold ashes. That is my chief good. 

The deepest hunger of a faithful heart 

Is faithfulness. Wish me naught else. And you, • 

You too will live 

Don Silva. 

1 go to Rome, to seek 
The right to use my knightly sword again ; 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 279 

The right to fill my place and live or die 

So that all Spaniards shall not curse my name. 

I sat one hour upon the barren rock 

And longed to kill myself ; but then I said, 

I will not leave my name in infamy, 

I will not be perpetual rottenness 

Upon the Spaniard's air. If I must sink 

At last to hell, I will not take my stand 

Among the coward crew who could not bear 

The harm themselves had done, which others bore. 

My young life yet may fill some bloody breach, 

And I will take no pardon, not my own, 

Not God's, — no pardon idly on my knees ; 

But it shall come to me upon my feet 

And in the thick of action, and each deed 

That carried shame and wrong shall be the sting 

That drives me higher up the steep of honor 

In deeds of duteous service to that Spain 

Who nourished me on her expectant breast, 

The heir of highest gifts. I will not fling 

My earthly being down for carrion 

To fill the air with loathing : I will be 

The living prey of some fierce noble death 

That leaps upon me while I move. Aloud 

I said, " I will redeem my name," and then, — 

I know not if aloud : I felt the words 

Drinking up all my senses, — " She still lives. 

I would not quit the dear familiar earth 

Where both of us behold the selfsame sun, 

vVhere there can be no strangeness 'twixt our thoughts 

So deep as their communion." Resolute 

I rose and walked. — Fedalma, think of me 

As one who will regain the only life 

Where he is other than apostate, — one 

Who seeks but to renew and keep the vows 



80 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Of Spanish knight and noble. But the breach 
Outside those vows — the fatal second breach — 
Lies a dark gulf where I have naught to cast, 
Not even expiation, — poor pretence, 
Which changes naught but what survives the past, 
And raises not the dead. That deep dark gulf 
Divides vis. 

Fedalma. 
Yes, forever. We must walk 
Apart unto the end. Our marriage rite 
Is our resolve that we will each be true 
To high allegiance, higher than our love, — 
Our dear young love, — its breath was happiness ! 
But it had grown upon a larger life 
Which tore its roots asunder. We rebelled, — 
The larger life subdued us. Yet we are wed ; 
For we shall carry each the pressure deep 
Of the other's soul. I soon shall leave the shore. 
The winds to-night will bear me far away. 
My lord, farewell ! 

[He did not say " Farewell." 
But neither knew that he was silent. She, 
For one long moment, moved not. They knew naught 
Save that they parted ; for their mutual gaze 
As with their soul's full speech forbade their hands 
To seek each otlier, — those oft-clasping hands 
Which had a memory of their own, and went 
Widowed of one dear touch forevermore. 
At last she turned and with swift movement passed, 
Beckoning to Hinda, who was bending low 
And lingered still to wash her shells, but soon 
Leaping and scampering followed, while her Queen 
Mounted the steps again and took her place, 
Which Juan rendered silently. 



THE SPANISH GYPSY. 281 

And now 
The press npon the quay was thinned ; the ground 
Was cleared of cumbering heaps, the eager shouts 
Had sunk, and left a murmur more restrained 
By common purpose. All the men ashore 
Were gathering into ordered companies, 
And with less clamor filled the waiting boats, 
As if the speaking light commanded them 
To quiet speed : for now the farewell glow 
Was on the topmost heights, and where far ships 
Were southward tending, tranquil, slow, and white 
Upon the luminous meadow toward the verge. 
The quay was in still shadow, and the boats 
Went sombrely upon the sombre waves. 
Fedalma watched again ; but now her gaze 
Takes in the eastward bay, where that small bark 
Which held the fisher boy floats weightier 
With one more life, that rests upon the oar 
Watching with her. He would not go away 
Till she was gone ; he would not turn his face 
Away from her at parting : but the sea 
Should widen slowly 'twixt their seeking eyes. 

The time was coming. Nadar had approached. 

Was the Queen ready ? Would she follow now 

Her father's body ? For the largest boat 

Was waiting at the quay, the last strong band 

Of armed Zincali ranged themselves in lines 

To guard her passage and to follow her. 

" Yes, I am ready ; " and with action prompt 

They cast aside the Gypsy's wandering tomb, 

And fenced the space from curious Moors who pressed 

To see Chief Zarca's coffin as it lay. 

They raised it slowly, holding it aloft 

On shoulders proud to bear the heavy load. 



282 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Bound on the coffin lay the chieftain's arms, 
His Gypsy garments and his coat of mail. 
Fedalma saw the burden lifted high, 
And then descending followed. All was still. 
The Moors aloof could hear the struggling steps 
Beneath the lowered burden at the boat, — 
The struggling calls subdued, till safe released 
It lay within, the space around it filled 
By black-haired Gypsies. Then Fedalma stepped 
From off the shore and saw it flee away, — 
The land that bred her helping the resolve 
Which exiled her forever. 

It was night 
Before the ships weighed anchor and gave sail : 
Fresh Night emergent in her clearness, lit 
By the large crescent moon, with Hesperus 
And those great stars that lead the eager host. 
Fedalma stood and watched the little bark 
Lying jet-black upon moon-whitened waves. 
Silva was standing too. He too divined 
A steadfast form that held him with its thought, 
And eyes that sought him vanishing : he saw 
The waters widen slowly, till at last 
Straining he gazed and knew not if he gazed 
On aught but blackness overhung by stars.] 



THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 

WHEN Cain was driven from Jehovah's land 
He wandered eastward, seeking some far strand 
Ruled by kind gods who asked no offerings 
Save pure field-fruits, as aromatic things, 
To feed the subtler sense of frames divine 
That lived on fragrance for their food and wine : 
Wild joyous gods, who winked at faults and folly, 
And could be pitiful and melancholy. 
He never had a doubt that such gods were ; 
He looked within, and saw them mirrored there. 
Some think he came at last to Tartary, 
And some to Ind ; but, howsoe'er it be, 
His staif he planted where sweet waters ran, 
And in that home of Cain the Arts began. 

Man's life was spacious in the early world : 
It paused, like some slow ship with sail unfurled 
Waiting in seas by scarce a wavelet curled ; 
Beheld the slow star-paces of the skies, 
And grew from strength to strength through centuries ; 
Saw infant trees fill out their giant limbs, 
And heard a thousand times the sweet bird's marriage 
hymns. 

In Cain's young city none had heard of Death 
Save him, the founder ; and it was his faith 
That here, away from harsh Jehovah's law, 
Man was immortal, since no halt or flaw 
In Cain's own frame betrayed six hundred years, 



284 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

But dark as pines that autumn never sears 
His locks thronged backward as he ran, his frame 
Eose like the orbed sun each morn the same, 
Lake-mirrored to his gaze ; and that red brand, 
The scorching impress of Jehovah's hand, 
AVas still clear-edged to his unwearied eye. 
Its secret firm in time-fraught memory. 
He said, " My happy offspring shall not know 
That the red life from out a man may flow 
When smitten by his brother." True, his race 
Bore each one stamped upon his new-born face 
A copy of the brand no whit less clear ; 
But every mother held that little copy dear. 

Thus generations in glad idlesse throve, 
Nor hunted prey, nor with each other strove ; 
For clearest springs were plenteous in the land, 
And gourds for cups ; the ripe fruits sought the hand, 
Bending the laden boughs with fragrant gold ; 
And for their roofs and garments wealth untold 
Lay everywhere in grasses and broad leaves : 
They labored gently, as a maid who weaves 
Her hair in mimic mats, and pauses oft 
And strokes across her palm the tresses soft. 
Then peeps to watch the poised butterfly, 
Or little burdened ants that homeward hie. 
Time was but leisure to their lingering thought, 
There was no need for haste to finish aught ; 
But sweet beginnings were repeated still 
Like infant babblings that no task fulfil ; 
For love, that loved not change, constrained the simple 
will. 

Till, hurling stones in mere athletic joy. 
Strong Lamech struck and killed his fairest boy. 
And tried to wake him with the tenderest cries. 



THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 285 

And fetched and held before the glazed eyes 

The things they best had loved to look upon ; 

But never glance or smile or sigh he won. 

The generations stood around those twain 

Helplessly gazing, till their father Cain 

Parted the press, and said, " He will not wake ; 

This is the endless sleep, and we must make 

A bed deep down for him beneath the sod ; 

For know, my sons, there is a mighty God 

Angry with all man's race, but most with me. 

I fled from out His land in vain ! — 't is He 

Who came and slew the lad, for He has found 

This home of ours, and we shall all be bound 

By the harsh bands of His most cruel will, 

Which any moment may some dear one kill. 

Nay, though we live for countless moons, at last 

We and all ours shall die like summers past. 

This is Jehovah's will, and He is strong ; 

I thought the way I travelled was too long 

For Him to follow me : my thought was vain ! 

He walks unseen, but leaves a track of pain, 

Pale Death His footprint is, and He will come again ! " 

And a new spirit from that hour came o'er 

The race of Cain : soft idlesse was no more, 

But even the svinshine had a heart of care, 

Smiling with hidden dread — a mother fair 

Who folding to her breast a dying child 

Beams with feigned joy that but makes sadness mild. 

Death was now lord of Life, and at his word 

Time, vague as air before, new terrors stirred. 

With measured wing now audibly arose 

Throbbing through all things to some unknown close. 

Now glad Content by clutching Haste was torn. 

And Work grew eager, and Device was born. 



286 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

It seemed the light was never loved before, 
Now each man said, " 'T will go and come no more.' 
No budding branch, no pebble from the brook, 
No form, no shadow, but new dearness took 
From the one thought that life must have an end ; 
And the last parting now began to send 
Diffusive dread through love and wedded bliss, 
Thrilling them into finer tenderness. 
Then Memory disclosed her face divine, 
That like the calm nocturnal lights doth shine 
Within the soul, and shows the sacred graves, 
And shows the presence that no sunlight craves, 
No space, no warmth, but moves among them all ; 
Gone and yet here, and coming at each call. 
With ready voice and eyes that understand. 
And lips that ask a kiss, and dear responsive hand. 

Thus to Cain's race death was tear-watered seed 

Of various life and action-shaping need. 

But chief the sons of Lamech felt the stings 

Of new ambition, and the force that springs 

In passion beating on the shores of fate. 

They said, " There comes a night when all too late 

The mind shall long to prompt the achieving hand, 

The eager thought behind closed portals stand. 

And the last wishes to the mute lips press 

Buried ere death in silent helplessness. 

Then while the soul its way with sound can cleave, 

And while the arm is strong to strike and heave. 

Let soul and arm give shape that will abide 

And rule above our graves, and power divide 

With that great god of day, whose rays must bend 

As we shall make the moving shadows tend. 

Come, let us fashion acts that are to be, 

When we shall lie in darkness silently, 



THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 287 

As our young brother doth, whom yet we see 
Fallen and slain, but reigning in our will 
By that one image of him pale and still." 

For Lamech's sons were heroes of their race : 

Jabal, the eldest, bore upon his face 

The look of that calm river-god, the Nile, 

Mildly secure in power that needs not guile. 

But Tubal-Cain was restless as the fire 

That glows and spreads and leaps from high to higher 

Where'er is aught to seize or to subdue ; 

Strong as a storm he lifted or o'erthrew. 

His urgent limbs like rounded granite grew, 

Such granite as the plunging torrent wears 

And roaring rolls around through countless years, v 

But strength that still on movement must be fed, 

Inspiring thought of change, devices bred. 

And urged his mind through earth and air to rove 

For force that he could conquer if he strove, 

For lurking forms that might new tasks fulfil 

And yield unwilling to his stronger will. 

Such Tubal-Cain. But Jubal had a frame 

Fashioned to finer senses, which became 

A yearning for some hidden soul of things. 

Some outward touch complete on inner springs 

That vaguely moving bred a lonely pain, 

A want that did but stronger grow with gain 

Of all good else, as spirits might be sad 

For lack of speech to tell us they are glad. 

Now Jabal learned to tame the lowing kine, 

And from their udders drew the snow-white wine 

That stirs the innocent joy, and makes the stream 

Of elemental life with fulness teem ; 

The star-browed calves he nursed with feeding hand, 



288 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

And sheltered them, till all the little band 

Stood mustered gazing at the sunset way 

Whence he would come with store at close of day. 

He soothed the silly sheep with friendly tone 

And reared their staggering lambs that, older grown, 

Followed his steps with sense-taught memory ; 

Till he, their shepherd, could their leader be 

And guide them through the pastures as he would, 

With sway that grew from ministry of good. 

He spread his tents upon the grassy plain 

Which, eastward widening like the open main, 

Showed the first whiteness 'neath the morning star; 

Near him his sister, deft, as women are. 

Plied her quick skill in sequence to his thought 

Till the hid treasures of the milk she caught 

Kevealed like pollen 'mid the petals white, 

The golden pollen, virgin to the light. 

Even the she-wolf with young, on rapine bent, 

He caught and tethered in his mat-walled tent, 

And cherished all her little sharp-nosed young 

Till the small race with hope and terror clung 

About his footsteps, till each new-reared brood, 

Remoter from the memories of the wood, 

More glad discerned their common home with man. 

This was the work of Jabal : he began 

The pastoral life, and, sire of joys to be. 

Spread the sweet ties that bind the family 

O'er dear dumb souls that thrilled at man's caress, 

And shared his pains with patient helpfulness. 

But Tubal-Cain had caught and yoked the fire. 
Yoked it with stones that bent the flaming spire 
And made it roar in prisoned servitude 
Within the furnace, till with force siibdued 
It changed all forms he willed to work upon, 



THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 289 

Till hard from soft, and soft from hard, he won. 

The pliant clay he moulded as he would, 

And laughed with joy when 'mid the heat it stood 

Shaped as his hand had chosen, while the mass 

That from his hold, dark, obstinate, would pass, 

He drew all glowing from the busy heat, 

All breathing as with life that he could beat 

With thundering hammer, making it obey 

His will creative, like the pale soft clay. 

Each day he wrought and better than he planned, 

Shape breeding shape beneath his restless hand. 

(The soul without still helps the soul within. 

And its deft magic ends what we begin.) 

Nay, in his dreams his hammer he would wield 

And seem to see a myriad types revealed. 

Then spring with wondering triumphant cry. 

And, lest the inspiring vision should go by. 

Would rush to labor with that plastic zeal 

Which all the passion of our life can steal 

For force to work with. Each day saw the birth 

Of various forms which, flung vipon the earth, 

Seemed harmless toys to cheat the exacting hour, 

But were as seeds instinct with hidden power. 

The axe, the club, the spiked wheel, the chain, 

Held silently the shrieks and moans of pain ; 

And near them latent lay in share and spade, 

In the strong bar, the saw, and deep-curved blade, 

Glad voices of the hearth and harvest-home, 

The social good, and all earth's joy to come. 

Thus to mixed ends wrought Tubal ; and they say, 

Some things he made have lasted to this day ; 

As, thirty silver pieces that were found 

By Noah's children buried in the ground. 

He made them from mere hunger of device, 

Those small white disks ; but they became the price 



290 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

The traitor Judas sold his Master for ; 
And men still handling them in peace and war 
Catch foul disease, that comes as appetite, 
And lurks and clings as withering, damning blight. 
But Tubal-Cain wot not of treachery, 
Nor greedy lust, nor any ill to be, 
Save the one ill of sinking into naught, 
Banished from action and act-shaping thought. 
He was the sire of swift-transforming skill. 
Which arms for conquest man's ambitious will ; 
And round him gladly, as his hammer rung. 
Gathered the elders and the growing young : 
These handled vaguely and those plied the tools, 
Till, happy chance begetting conscious rules, 
The home of Cain with industry was rife. 
And glimpses of a strong persistent life, 
Panting through generations as one breath. 
And filling with its soul the blank of death. 

Jubal, too, watched the hammer, till his eyes. 

No longer following its fall or rise. 

Seemed glad with something that they could not see, 

But only listened to — some melody. 

Wherein dumb longings inward speech had found, 

Won from the common store of struggling sound. 

Then, as the metal shapes more various grew, 

And, hurled upon each other, resonance drew, 

Each gave new tones, the revelations dim 

Of some external soul that spoke for him : 

The hollow vessel's clang, the clash, the boom, 

Like light that makes wide spiritual room 

And skyey spaces in the spaceless thought. 

To Jubal such enlarged passion brought 

That love, hope, rage, and all experience, 

AVere fused in vaster being, fetching thence 



THE LEGEND OF JURAL. 291 

Concords and discords, cadences and cries 

That seemed from some world-shrouded soul to rise, 

Some rapture more intense, some mightier rage, 

Some living sea that burst the bounds of man's brief age. 

Then with such blissful trouble and glad care 

For growth within unborn as mothers bear. 

To the far woods he wandered, listening, 

And heard the birds their little stories sing 

In notes whose rise and fall seemed melted speech — 

Melted with tears, smiles, glances — that can reach 

More quickly through our frame's deep-winding night, 

And without thought raise thought's best fruit, delight. 

Pondering, he sought his home again and heard 

The fluctuant changes of the spoken word : 

The deep remonstrance and the argued want. 

Insistent first in close monotonous chant, 

Next leaping upward to defiant stand 

Or downward beating like the resolute hand ; 

The mother's call, the children's answering cry, 

The laugh's light cataract tumbling from on high ; 

The suasive repetitions Jabal taught. 

That timid browsing cattle homeward brought ; 

The clear-winged fugue of echoes vanishing ; 

And through them all the hammer's rhythmic ring. 

.Tubal sat lonely, all around was dim. 

Yet his face glowed with light revealed to him : 

For as the delicate stream of odor wakes 

The thought-wed sentience and some image makes 

From out the mingled fragments of the past, 

Finely compact in wholeness that will last, 

So streamed as from the body of each sound 

Subtler pulsations, swift as warmth, which found 

All prisoned germs and all their powers unbound. 

Till thought self-luminous flamed from memory, 



292 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

And in creative vision wandered free. 

Then Jubal, standing, rapturous arms upraised. 

And on the d^irk with eager eyes he gazed, 

As had some manifested god been there. 

It was his thought he saw : the presence fair 

Of unachieved achievement, the high task, 

The struggling unborn spirit that doth ask 

With irresistible cry for blood and breath, 

Till feeding its great life we sink in death. 

He said, " Were now those mighty tones and cries 

That from the giant soul of earth arise. 

Those groans of some great travail heard from far, 

Some power at wrestle with the things that are. 

Those sounds which vary with the varying form 

Of clay and metal, and in sightless swarm 

Fill the wide space with tremors : were these wed 

To human voices with such passion fed 

As does put glimmer in our common speech. 

But might flame out in tones whose changing reach, 

Surpassing meagre need, informs the sense 

With fuller union, finer difference — 

Were this great vision, now obscurely bright 

As morning hills that melt in new-poured light. 

Wrought into solid form and living sound. 

Moving with ordered throb and sure rebound. 

Then — Nay, I Jubal will that work begin ! 

The generations of our race shall win 

New life, that grows from out the heart of this. 

As spring from winter, or as lovers' bliss 

From out the dull unknown of unwaked energies." 

Thus he resolved, and in the soul-fed light 
Of coming ages waited through the night. 
Watching for that near dawn whose chiller ray 



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" Then Jubal poured his triumph ia a song." 



THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 2! 

Showed but the unchanged world of yesterday ; 
Where all the order of his dream divine 
Lay like Olympian forms within the mine ; 
Where fervor that could fill the earthly round 
With thronged joys of form-begotten sound 
Must shrink intense within the patient power 
That lonely labors through the niggard hour. 
Such patience have the heroes who begin, 
Sailing the first to lands which others win. 
Jubal must dare as great beginners dare, 
Strike form's first way in matter rude and bare, 
And, yearning vaguely toward the plenteous quire 
Of the world's harvest, make one poor small lyre. 
He made it, and from out its measured frame 
Drew the harmonic soul, whose answers came 
With guidance sweet and lessons of delight 
Teaching to ear and hand the blissful Right, 
Where strictest law is gladness to the sense 
And all desire bends toward obedience. 

Then Jubal poured his triumph in a song — 

The rapturous word that rapturous notes prolong 

As radiance streams from smallest things that burn. 

Or thought of loving into love doth turn. 

And still his lyre gave companionship 

In sense-taught concert as of lip with lip. 

Alone amid the hills at first he tried 

His winged song ; then with adoring pride 

And bridegroom's joy at leading forth his bride, 

He said, " This wonder which my soul hath found. 

This heart of music in the might of sound, 

Shall forthwith be the share of all our race 

And like the morning gladden common space : 

The song shall spread and swell as rivers do. 

And I will teach our youth with skill to woo 



294 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

This living lyre, to know its secret will, 

Its fine division of the good and ill. 

So shall men call nie sire of harmony. 

And where great Song is, there my life shall be." 

Thus glorying as a god beneficent, 

P'orth from his solitary joy he went 

To bless mankind. It was at evening, 

When shadows lengthen from each westward thing, 

When imminence of change makes sense more fine 

And light seems holier in its grand decline. 

The fruit-trees wore their studded coronal, 

Earth and her children were at festival. 

Glowing as with one heart and one consent — 

Thought, love, trees, rocks, in sweet warm radiance blent. 

The tribe of Cain was resting on the ground. 
The various ages wreathed in one broad round. 
Here lay, while children peeped o'er his huge thighs, 
The sinewy man embrowned by centuries ; 
Here the broad-bosomed mother of the strong- 
Looked, like Demeter, placid o'er the throng 
Of young lithe forms whose rest was movement too — 
Tricks, prattle, nods, and laughs that lightly flew, 
And swayings as of flower-beds where Love blew. 
For all had feasted well upon the flesh 
Of juicy fruits, on nuts, and honey fresh. 
And now their wine was health-bred merriment, 
Which through the generations circling went. 
Leaving none sad, for even father Cain 
Smiled as a Titan might, despising pain. 
Jabal sat climbed on by a playful ring 
Of children, lambs, and whelps, whose gambolling, 
With tiny hoofs, paws, hands, and dimpled feet, 
Made barks, bleats, laughs, in pretty hubbub meet. 



THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 295 

But Tubal's hammer rang from far away, 

Tubal alone would keep no holiday, 

His furnace must not slack for any feast. 

For of all hardship work he counted least ; 

He scorned all rest but sleep, where every dream 

Made his repose more potent action seem. 

Yet with health's nectar some strange thirst was blent, 

The fateful growth, the unnamed discontent, 

The inward shaping toward some unborn power. 

Some deeper-breathing act, the being's flower. 

After all gestures, words, and speech of eyes, 

The soul had more to tell, and broke in sighs. 

Then from the east, with glory on his head 

Such as low-slanting beams on corn-waves spread, 

Came Jubal with his lyre : there 'mid the throng, 

Where the blank space was, poured a solemn song, 

Touching his lyre to full harmonic throb 

And measured pulse, with cadences that sob. 

Exult and cry, and search the inmost deep 

Where the dark sources of new passion sleep. 

.Toy took the air, and took each breathing soul. 

Embracing them in one entranced whole. 

Yet thrilled each varying frame to various ends. 

As Spring new-waking through the creature sends 

Or rage or tenderness ; more plenteous life 

Here breeding dread, and there a fiercer strife. 

He who had lived through twice three centuries. 

Whose months monotonous, like trees on trees. 

In hoary forests, stretched a backward maze. 

Dreamed himself dimly through the travelled days 

Till in clear light he paused, and felt the sun 

That warmed him when he was a little one ; 

Felt that true heaven, the recovered past. 

The dear small Known amid the Unknown vast, 



296 POEMS OE GEORGE ELIOT. 

And in that heaven wept. But younger limbs 

Thrilled toward the future, that bright land which swims 

In western glory, isles and streams and bays, 

Where hidden pleasures float in golden haze. 

And in all these the rhythmic influence. 

Sweetly o'ercharging the delighted sense, 

Flowed out in movements, little waves that spread 

Enlarging, till in tidal union led 

The youths and maidens both alike long-tressed. 

By grace-inspiring melody possessed, 

Eose in slow dance, with beauteous floating swerve 

Of limbs and hair, and many a melting curve 

Of ringed feet swayed by each close-linked palm : 

Then Jubal poured more rapture in his psalm. 

The dance fired music, music fired the dance. 

The glow diffusive lit each countenance. 

Till all the gazing elders rose and stood 

With glad yet awful shock of that mysterious good. 

Even Tubal caught the sound, and wondering came, 

Urging his sooty bulk like smoke-wrapt flame 

Till he could see his brother with the lyre. 

The work for which he lent his furnace-fire 

And diligent hammer, witting naught of this — 

This power in metal shape which made strange bliss, 

Entering within him like a dream full-fraught 

With new creations finished in a thought. 

Th? sun had sunk, but music still was there, 
And when this ceased, still triumph filled the air : 
It seemed the stars were shining with delight 
And that no night was ever like this night. 
All clung with praise to Jubal : some besought 
That he would teach them his new skill ; some caught, 
Swiftly as smiles are caught in looks that meet, 
The tone's melodic change and rhythmic beat : 



THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 297 

'T was easy following where invention trod — 
All eyes can see when light flows out from God. 

And thus did Jubal to his race reveal 
Music their larger soul, where woe and weal 
i'^illing the resonant chords, the song, the dance, 
Moved with a wider-winged utterance. 
Now many a lyre was fashioned, many a song 
liaised echoes new, old echoes to prolong. 
Till things of Jubal's making were so rife, 
" Hearing myself," he said, " hems in my life, 
And I will get me to some far-off land, 
Where higher mountains under heaven stand 
And touch the blue at rising of the stars. 
Whose song they hear where no rough mingling mars 
The great clear voices. Such lands there must be. 
Where varying forms make varying symphony — 
W^here other thunders roll amid the hills. 
Some mightier wind a mightier forest fills 
W^ith other strains through other-shapen boughs ; 
Where bees and birds and beasts that hunt or browse 
Will teach me songs I know not. Listening there. 
My life shall grow like trees both tall and fair 
That rise and spread and bloom toward fuller fruit each 
year." 

He took a raft, and travelled with the stream 
Southward for many a league, till he might deem 
He saw at last the pillars of the sky, 
Beholding mountains whose white majesty 
Rushed through him as new awe, and made new song 
That swept with fuller wave the chords along. 
Weighting his voice with deep religious chime. 
The iteration of slow chant sublime. 
It was the region long inhabited 



298 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

By all the race of Seth ; and Jubal said : 
" Here have I found my thirsty soul's desire, 
Eastward the hills touch heaven, and evening's fire 
Flames through deep waters ; I will take my rest, 
And feed anew from my great mother's breast. 
The sky-clasped Earth, whose voices nurture me 
As the flowers' sweetness doth the honey-bee." 
He lingered wandering for many an age, 
And, sowing music, made high heritage 
Eor generations far beyond the Flood — 
For the poor late-begotten human brood 
Born to life's weary brevity and perilous good. 

And ever as he travelled he would climb 

The farthest mountain, yet the heavenly chime, 

The mighty tolling of the far-off spheres 

Beating their pathway, never touched his ears. 

But wheresoe'er he rose the heavens rose. 

And the far-gazing mountain could disclose 

Naught but a wider earth ; until one height 

Showed him the ocean stretched in liquid light, 

And he could hear its multitudinous roar. 

Its plunge and hiss upon the pebbled shore : 

Then Jubal silent sat, and touched his lyre no more. 

He thought, " The world is great, but I am weak, 
And where the sky bends is no solid peak 
To give me footing, but instead, this main — 
Myriads of maddened horses thundering o'er the plain 

" New voices come to me where'er I roam. 
My heart too widens with its widening home : 
But song grows weaker, and the heart must break 
For lack of voice, or fingers that can wake 
The lyre's full answer ; nay, its chords were all 
Too few to meet the growing spirit's call. 



THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 299 

The former songs seem little, yet no more 
Can soul, hand, voice, with interchanging lore 
Tell what the earth is saying»unto me : 
The secret is too great, I hear confusedly. 

'' No farther will I travel : once again 

My brethren I will see, and that fair plain 

Where I and Song were born. There fresh-voiced youth 

Will pour my strains with all the early truth 

Which now abides not in my voice and hands, 

But only in the soul, the will that stands 

Helpless to move. My tribe remembering 

Will cry "T is he ! ' and run to greet me, welcoming." 

The way was weary. Many a date-palm grew. 

And shook out clustered gold against the blue. 

While Jubal, guided by the steadfast spheres, 

Sought the dear home of those first eager years, 

When, with fresh vision fed, the fuller will 

Took living outward shape in pliant skill ; 

For still he hoped to find the former things. 

And the warm gladness recognition brings. 

His footsteps erred among the mazy woods 

And long illusive sameness of the floods. 

Winding and wandering. Through far regions, strange 

With Gentile homes and faces, did he range, 

And left his music in their memory. 

And left at last, when naught besides would free 

His homeward steps from clinging hands and cries, 

The ancient lyre. And now in ignorant eyes 

No sign remained of Jubal, Lamech's son. 

That mortal frame wherein was first begun 

The immortal life of song. His withered brow 

Pressed over eyes that held no lightning now, 

His locks streamed whiteness on the hurrying air, 



300 rOEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

The unresting soul had worn itself quite bare 
Of beauteous token, as the outworn might 
Of oaks slow dying, gaunti in summer's light. 
His full deep voice toward thinnest treble ran : 
He was the rune-writ story of a man. 

And so at last he neared the well-known land, 
Could see the hills in ancient order stand 
With friendly faces whose familiar gaze 
Looked through the sunshine of his childish days ; 
Knew the deep-shadowed folds of hanging woods, 
And seemed to see the selfsame insect broods 
Whirling and quivering o'er the flowers — to hear 
The selfsame cuckoo making distance near. 
Yea, the dear Earth, with mother's constancy, 
Met and embraced him, and said, " Thou art he ! 
This was thy cradle, here my breast was thine. 
Where feeding, thou didst all thy life entwine 
With my sky-wedded life in heritage divine." 

But wending ever through the watered plain. 

Firm not to rest save in the home of Cain, 

He saw dread Change, with dubious face and cold 

That never kept a welcome for the old. 

Like some strange heir upon the hearth, arise 

Saying, " This home is mine." He thought his eyes 

Mocked all deep memories, as things new made. 

Usurping sense, make old things shrink and fade 

And seem ashamed to meet the staring day. 

His memory saw a small foot-trodden way, 

His eyes a broad far-stretching paven road 

Bordered with many a tomb and fair abode ; 

The little city that once nestled low 

As buzzing groups about some central glow. 

Spread like a murmuring crowd o'er plain and steep, 

Or monster huge in heavy -breathing sleep. 



THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 301 

His heart grew faint, and tremblingly he saiili 

Close by the wayside on a weed-grown bank, 

Not far from where a new-raised temple stood, 

Sky-roofed, and fragrant with wrought cedar wood. 

The morning sun was high ; his rays fell hot 

On this hap-chosen, dusty, common spot, 

On the dry-withered grass and withered man : 

That wondrous frame where melody began 

Lay as a tomb defaced that no eye cared to scan. 

But while he sank far music reached his ear. 
He listened until wonder silenced fear 
And gladness wonder ; for the broadening stream 
Of sound advancing was his early dream, 
Brought like fulfilment of forgotten prayer ; 
As if his soul, breathed out upon the air, 
Had held the invisible seeds of harmony 
Quick with the various strains of life to be. 
He listened : the sweet mingled difference 
With charm alternate took the meeting sense ; 
Then bursting like some shield-broad lily red, 
Sudden and near the trumpet's notes outspread, 
And soon his eyes could see the metal flower. 
Shining upturned, out on the morning pour 
Its incense audible ; could see a train 
From out the street slow-winding on the plain 
With lyres and cymbals, flutes and psalteries, 
While men, youths, maids, in concert sang to these 
With various throat, or in succession poured. 
Or in full volume mingled. But one word 
Euled each recurrent rise and answering fall, 
As when the multitudes adoring call 
On some great name divine, their common soul. 
The common need, love, joy, that knits them in one 
whole. 



302 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

The word was " Jubal ! " . . . " Jubal " filled the air 

And seemed to ride aloft, a spirit there, 

Creator of the quire, the full-fraught strain 

That grateful rolled itself to him again. 

The aged man adust upon the bank — 

Whom no eye saw — at first with rapture drank 

The bliss of music, then, with swelling heart, 

Felt, this was his own being's greater part, 

The universal joy once born in him. 

But when the train, with living face and limb 

And vocal breath, came nearer and more near, 

The longing grew that they should hold him dear ; 

Him, Lamech's son, whom all their fathers knew. 

The breathing Jubal — him, to whom their love was due. 

All was forgotten but the burning need 

To claim his fuller self, to claim the deed 

That lived away from him, and grew apart, 

While he as from a tomb, with lonely heart, 

Warmed by no meeting glance, no hand that pressed, 

Lay chill amid the life his life had blessed. 

What though his song should spread from man's small 

race 
Out through the myriad worlds that people space. 
And make the heavens one joy -diffusing quire ? — 
Still 'mid that vast would throb the keen desire 
Of this poor aged flesh, this eventide. 
This twilight soon in darkness to subside, 
This little pulse of self that, having glowed 
Through thrice three centuries, and divinely strowed 
The light of music through the vague of sound, 
Ached with its smallness still in good that had no 

bound. 

For no eye saw him, while with loving pride 
Each voice with each in praise of Jubal vied. 




" Hu soughl tlie screen 
Of thorny thickets, and tbcrc fell unseen." 



THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 303 

Must lie in conscious trance, dumb, helpless lie 
While all that ardent kindred passed him by ? 
His flesh cried out to live with living men 
And join that soul which to the inward ken 
Of all the hymning train was present there. 
Strong passion's daring sees not aught to dare : 
The frost-locked starkness of his frame low-bent, 
His voice's penury of tones long spent, 
He felt not ; all his being leaped in flame 
To meet his kindred as they onward came 
Slackening and wheeling toward the temple's face : 
He rushed before them to the glittering space. 
And, with a strength that was but strong desire, 
Cried, " I am Jubal, I ! ... I made the lyre ! " 

The tones amid a lake of silence fell 

Broken and strained, as if a feeble bell 

Had tuneless pealed the triumph of a land 

To listening crowds in expectation spanned. 

Sudden came showers of laughter on that lake ; 

They spread along the train from front to wake 

In one great storm of merriment, while he 

Shrank doubting whether he could Jubal be. 

And not a dream of Jubal, whose rich vein 

Of passionate music came with that dream-pain 

Wherein the sense slips off from each loved thing 

And all appearance is mere vanishing. 

But ere the laughter died from out the rear. 

Anger in front saw profanation near ; 

Jubal was but a name in each man's faith 

For glorious power untouched by that slow death 

Which creeps with creeping time ; this too, the spot, 

And this the day, it must be crime to blot. 

Even with scoffing at a madman's lie : 

Jubal was not a name to wed with mockery. 



304 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Two rushed upon him : two, the most devout 

In honor of great Jubal, thrust him out, 

And beat him with their flutes. 'T was little need ; 

He strove not, cried not, but with tottering speed, 

As if the scorn and howls were driving wind 

That urged his body, serving so the mind 

Which could but shrink and yearn, he sought the screen 

Of thorny thickets, and there fell unseen. 

The immortal name of Jubal filled the sky, 

While Jubal lonely laid him down to die. 

He said within his soul, " This is the end : 

O'er all the earth to where the heavens bend 

And hem men's travel, I have breathed my soul : 

I lie here now the remnant of that whole, 

The embers of a life, a lonely pain ; 

As far-off rivers to my thirst were vain, 

So of my mighty years naught comes to me again. 

" Is the day sinking ? Softest coolness springs 
From something round me : dewy shadowy wings 
Enclose me all around — no, not above — 
Is moonlight there ? I see a face of love. 
Fair as sweet music when my heart was strong : 
Yea — art thou come again to me, great Song ? " 

The face bent over him like silver night 

In long-remembered summers ; that calm light 

Of days which shine in firmaments of thought. 

That j)ast unchangeable, from change still wrought. 

And gentlest tones were with the vision blent : 

He knew not if that gaze the music sent, 

Or music that calm gaze : to hear, to see, 

Was but one undivided ecstasy : 

The raptured senses melted into one, 

And parting life a moment's freedom won 



THE LEGEND OF JUBAL. 305 

From in and outer, as a little child 

Sits on a bank and sees blue heavens mild 

Down in the water, and forgets its limbs, 

And knoweth naught save the blue heaven that swims. 

"Jubal," the face said, "1 am thy loved Past, 

The soul that makes thee one from first to last. 

I am the angel of thy life and death, 

Thy outbreathed being drawing its last breath. 

Am I not thine alone, a dear dead bride 

Who blest thy lot above all men's beside ? 

Thy bride whom thou wouldst never change, nor take 

Any bride living, for that dead one's sake ? 

Was I not all thy yearning and delight, 

Thy chosen search, thy senses' beauteous Right, 

Which still had been the hunger of thy frame 

In central heaven, hadst thou been still the same ? 

Wouldst thou have asked aught else from any god — 

Whether with gleaming feet on earth he trod 

Or thundered through the skies — aught else for share 

Of mortal good, than in thy soul to bear 

The growth of song, and feel the sweet unrest 

Of the world's spring-tide in thy conscious breast ? 

No, thou hadst grasped thy lot with all its pain, 

Nor loosed it any painless lot to gain 

Where music's voice was silent ; for thy fate 

Was human music's self incorporate : 

Thy senses' keenness and thy passionate strife 

Were flesh of her flesh and her womb of life. 

And greatly hast thou lived, for not alone 

With hidden raptures were her secrets shown, 

Buried within thee, as the purple light 

Of gems may sleep in solitary night ; 

But thy expanding joy was still to give. 

And with the generous air in song to live, 



306 POEMS OB^ GEORGE ELIOT. 

Feeding the wave of ever-widening bliss 
Where fellowship means equal perfectness. 
And on the mountains in thy wandering 
■ Thy feet were beautiful as blossomed spring, 
That turns the leafless wood to love's glad home, 
For with thy coming Melody was come. 
This was thy lot, to feel, create, bestow. 
And that immeasurable life to know 
From which the fleshly self falls shrivelled, dead, 
A seed primeval that has forests bred. 
It'is the glory of the heritage 
Thy life has left, that makes thy outcast age : 
Thy limbs shall lie dark, tombless on this sod, 
Because thou shinest in man's soul, a god, 
Who found and gave new passion and new joy 
That naught but Earth's destruction can destroy. 
Thy gifts to give was thine of men alone : 
'T was but in giving that thou couldst atone 
For too much wealth amid their poverty." 

The words seemed melting into symphony. 
The wings upbore him, and the gazing song 
Was floating him the heavenly space along. 
Where mighty harmonies all gently fell 
Through veiling vastness, like the far-off bell. 
Till, ever onward through the choral blue, 
He heard more faintly and more faintly knew, 
Quitting mortality, a quenched sun-wave, 
The All-creating Presence for his grave. 




Come with me to the mountain. 



AGATHA. 

COME with me to the mountain, not where rocks 
Soar harsh above the troops of hurrying pines, 
But where the earth spreads soft and rounded breasts^ 
To feed her chiklren ; where the generous hills 
Lift a green isle betwixt the sky and plain 
To keep some Old World things aloof from change. 
Here too 't is hill and hollow : new-born streams. 
With sweet enforcement, joyously compelled 
Like laughing children, hurry down the steeps. 
And make a dimpled chase athwart the stones ; 
Pine woods are black upon the heights, the slopes ^ 
Are green with pasture, and the bearded corn 
Fringes the blue above the sudden ridge : 
A little world whose round horizon cuts 
This isle of hills with heaven for a sea, 
Save in clear moments when southwestward gleams 
France by the Rhine, melting anon to haze. 
The monks of old chose here their still retreat, . 
And called it by the Blessed Virgin's name, 
Sancta Maria, which the peasant's tongue. 
Speaking from out the parent's heart that turns 
All loved things into little things, has made 
Sanct Margen — Holy little Mary, dear 
As all the sweet home things she smiles upon. 
The children and the cows, the apple-trees, 
The cart, the plough, all named with that caress 
Which feigns them little, easy to be held. 
Familiar to the eyes and hand and heart. 
What though a Queen ? She puts her crown away 



308 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

And with her little Boy wears common clothes, 

Caring for common wants, remembering 

That day when good Saint Joseph left his work 

To marry her with humble trust sublime. 

The monks are gone, their shadows fall no more 

Tall-frocked and cowled athwart the evening fields 

At milking-time ; their silent corridors 

Are turned to homes of bare-armed, aproned men, 

Who toil for wife and. children. But the bells. 

Pealing on high from two quaint convent towers, 

Still ring the Catholic signals, summoning 

To grave remembrance of the larger life 

That bears our own, like perishable fruit 

Upon its heaven-wide branches. At their sound 

The shepherd boy far off upon the hill. 

The workers with the saw and at the forge. 

The triple generation round the hearth — 

Grandames and" mothers and the flute-voiced girls — 

Fall on their knees and send forth prayerful cries 

To the kind Mother with the little Boy, 

Who pleads for helpless men against the storm, 

Lightning and plagues and all terrific shapes 

Of power supreme. 

Within the prettiest hollow of these hills. 

Just as you enter it, upon the slope 

Stands a low cottage neighbored cheerily 

By running water, which, at farthest end 

Of the same hollow, turns a heavy mill, 

And feeds the pasture for the miller's cows, 

Blanchi and Nageli, Veilchen and the rest, 

Matrons with faces as Griselda mild. 

Coming at call. And on the farthest height 

A little tower looks out above the pines 

Where nfbunting you will find a sanctuary 

Open and still ; without, the silent crowd 



AGATHA. 309 

Of heaven-planted, incense-mingling flowers ; 

Within, the altar where the Mother sits 

'Mid votive tablets hung from far-off years 

By peasants succored in the peril of fire. 

Fever, or flood, who thought that Mary's love, 

Willing but not omnipotent, had stood 

Between their lives and that dread power which slew 

Their neighbor at their side. The chapel bell 

Will melt to gentlest music ere it reach 

That cottage on the slope, whose garden gate 

Has caught the rose-tree boughs and stands ajar ; 

So does the door, to let the sunbeams in ; 

For in the slanting sunbeams angels come 

And visit Agatha who dwells within — 

Old Agatha, whose cousins Kate and Nell 

Are housed by her in Love and Duty's name, 

They being feeble, with small withered wits, 

And she believing that the higher gift 

Was given to be shared. So Agatha 

Shares her one room, all neat on afternoons, 

As if some memory were sacred there 

And everything within the four low walls 

An honored relic. 

One long summer's day 
An angel entered at the rose-hung gate, 
With skirts pale blue, a brow to quench the pearl. 
Hair soft and blonde as infants', plenteous 
As hers who made the wavy lengths once speak 
The grateful worship of a rescued soul. 
The angel paused before the open door 
To give good day. " Come in," said Agatha. 
I followed close, and watched and listened there. 
The angel was a lady, noble, young, 
Taught in all seemliness that fits a court. 



310 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

All lore that shapes the mind to delicate use, 
Yet quiet, lowly, as a meek white dove 
That with its presence teaches gentleness. 
Men called her Countess Linda ; little girls 
In Freiburg town, orphans whom she caressed, 
Said Mamma Linda : yet her years were few, 
Her outward beauties all in budding time, 
Her virtues the aroma of the plant 
That dwells in all its being, root, stem, leaf, 
And waits not ripeness. 

" Sit," said Agatha. 
Her cousins were at work in neighboring homes 
But yet she was not lonely ; all things round 
Seemed filled with noiseless yet responsive life, 
As of a child at breast that gently clings : 
Not sunlight only or the breathing flowers 
Or the swift shadows of the birds and bees, 
But all the household goods, which, polished fair 
By hands that cherished them for service done, 
Shone as with glad content. The wooden beams 
Dai-k and yet friendly, easy to be reached. 
Bore three white crosses for a speaking sign ; 
The walls had little pictures hung a-row, 
Telling the stories of Saint Ursula, 
And Saint Elizabeth, the lowly queen ; 
And on the bench that served for table too, 
Skirting the wall to save the narrow space, 
There lay the Catholic books, inherited 
From those old times when printing still was young 
With stout-limbed promise, like a sturdy boy. 
And in the farthest corner stood the bed 
AVhere o'er the pillow hung two pictures wreathed 
With fresh-plucked ivy : one the Virgin's death, 
And one her flowering tomb, while high above 




' Fair Countess Linda sat upon the bench, 
Close fronting the old knitter." 



AGATHA. 311 

She smiling bends and lets her girdle down 
For ladder to the soul that cannot trust 
In life which outlasts burial. Agatha 
Sat at her knitting, aged, upright, slim. 
And spoke her welcome with mild dignity. 
She kept the company of kings and queens 
And mitred saints who sat below the feet 
Of Francis with the ragged frock and wounds ; 
And Eank for her meant Duty, various, 
Yet equal in its worth, done worthily. 
Command was service ; humblest service done 
By willing and discerning souls Avas glory. 
Fair Countess Linda sat upon the bench, 
Close fronting the old knitter, and they talked 
With sweet antiphony of young and old. 

Agatha. 
You like our valley, lady ? I am glad 
You thought it well to come again. But rest — 
The walk is long from Master Michael's inn. 

Countess Linda. 
Yes, but no walk is prettier. 
Agatha. 

It is true : 
There lacks no blessing here, the waters all 
Have virtues like the garments of the Lord, 
And heal much sickness ; then, the crops and cows 
Flourish past speaking, and the garden flowers. 
Pink, blue, and purple, 't is a joy to see 
How they yield honey for the singing bees. 
I would the whole world were as good a home. 

Countess Linda. 
And you are well ofp, Agatha ? — your friends 
Left you a certain bread : is it not so ? 



9il2 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Agatha. 

Not so at all, dear lady. I had naught, 

Was a poor orphan ; but I came to tend 

Here in this house, an old afflicted pair, 

Who wore out slowly ; and the last who died, 

Full thirty years ago, left me this roof 

And all the household stuff. It was great wealth, 

And so I had a home for Kate and Nell. 

Countess Linda. 
But how, then, have you earned your daily bread 
These thirty years ? 

Agatha. 

Oh, that is easy earning. 
We help the neighbors, and our bit and sup 
Is never failing : they have work for us 
In house and field, all sorts of odds and ends. 
Patching and mending, turning o'er the hay, 
Holding sick children — there is always work ; 
And they are very good — the neighbors are : 
Weigh not our bits of work with weight and scale, 
But glad themselves with giving us good shares 
Of meat and drink ; and in the big farmhouse 
When cloth comes home from weaving, the good wife 
Cuts me a piece — this very gown — and says : 
" Here, Agatha, you old maid, you have time 
To pray for Hans who is gone soldiering : 
The saints might help him, and they have much to do, 
'T were well they were besought to think of him." 
She spoke half jesting, but I pray, I pray 
For poor young Hans. I take it much to heart 
That other people are worse off than I — 
I ease my soul with praying for them all. 



AGATHA. 313 

Countess Linda. 
That is your way of singing, Agatha ; 
Just as the nightingales pour forth sad songs, 
And when they reach men's ears they make men's hearts 
Feel the more kindly. 

Agatha. 

Nay, I cannot sing : 
My voice is hoarse, and oft I think my prayers 
Are foolish, feeble things ; for Christ is good 
Whether I pray or not — the Virgin's heart 
Is kinder far than mine ; and then I stop 
And feel I can do naught toward helping men, 
Till out it comes, like tears that will not hold, 
And I must pray again for all the world. 
'T is good to me — I mean the neighbors are : 
To Kate and Nell too. I have money saved 
To go on pilgrimage the second time. 

Countess Linda. 
And do you mean to go on pilgrimage 
With all your years to carry, Agatha ? 

Agatha. 
The years are light, dear lady : 't is my sins 
Are heavier than I would. And I shall go 
All the way to Einsiedeln with that load : 
I need to work it off. 

Countess Linda. 
What sort of sins, 
Dear Agatha ? I think they must be small. 

Agatha. 
Nay, but they may be greater than I know ; 
'T is but dim light I see by. So I try 



314 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

All ways I know of to be cleansed and pure. 

I would not sink where evil spirits are. 

There 's perfect goodness somewhere : so I strive. 

Countess Linda. 
You were the better for that pilgrimage 
You made before ? The shrine is beautiful ; 
And then you saw fresh country all the way, 

Agatha. 
Yes, that is true. And ever since that time 
The world seems greater, and the Holy Church 
More wonderfid. The blessed pictures all, 
The heavenly images with books and wings. 
Are company to me through the day and night. 
The time ! the time ! It never seemed far back, 
Only to father's father and his kin 
That lived before him. But the time stretched o\it 
After that pilgrimage : I seemed to see 
Far back, and yet I knew time lay behind. 
As there are countries lying still behind 
The highest mountains, there in Switzerland. 
Oh, it is great to go on pilgrimage ! 

Countess Linda. 
Perhaps some neighbors will be pilgrims too. 
And you can start together in a band. 

Agatha. 
Not from these hills : people are busy here. 
The beasts want tendance. One who is not missed 
Can go and pray for others who must work. 
I owe it to all neighbors, young and old ; 
For they are good past thinking — lads and girls 
Given to mischief, merry naughtiness, 
Quiet it, as the hedgehogs smooth their spines, 



AGATHA. 315 

For fear of hurting poor old Agatha. 

'T is pretty : why, the cherubs in the sky 

Look young and merry, and the angels play 

On citherns, lutes, and all sweet instruments. 

I would have young things merry. See the Lord ! 

A little baby playing with the birds ; 

And how the Blessed Mother smiles at him. 

Countess Linda. 
I think you are too happy, Agatha, 
To care for heaven. Earth contents you well. 

Agatha. 
Nay, nay, I shall be called, and I shall go 
Right willingly. I shall get helpless, blind. 
Be like an old stalk to be plucked away : 
The garden must be cleared for young spring plants. 
'T is home beyond the grave, the most are there, 
All those we pray to, all the Church's lights — 
And poor old souls are welcome in their rags : 
One sees it by the pictures. Good Saint Ann, 
The Virgin's mother, she is very old. 
And had her troubles with her husband too. 
Poor Kate and Nell are younger far than I, 
But they will have this roof to cover them. 
I shall go willingly ; and Avillingness 
Makes the yoke easy and the burden light. 

Countess Linda. 
When you go southward in your pilgrimage, 
Come to see me in Freiburg, Agatha. 
Where you have friends you should not go to inns. 

Agatha. 

Yes, I will gladly come to see you, lady, 
A.nd you will give me sweet hay for a bed. 



316 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

And in the morning I shall wake betimes 
And start when all the birds begin to sing. 

Countess Linda. 

You wear your smart clothes on the pilgrimage, 
Such pretty clothes as all the women here 
Keep by them for their best : a velvet cap 
And collar golden-broidered ? They look well 
On old and young alike. 

Agatha. 

Nay, I have none — 
Never had better clothes than these you see. 
Good clothes are pretty, but one sees them best 
When others wear them, and I somehow thought 
'T was not worth while. I had so many things 
More than some neighbors, I was partly shy 
Of wearing better clothes than they, and now 
I am so old and custom is so strong 
'T would hurt me sore to put on finery. 

Countess Linda. 

Your gray hair is a crown, dear Agatha. 

Shake hands ; good-by. The sun is going down, 

And I must see the glory from the hill. 

I stayed among those hills ; and oft heard more 
Of Agatha. I liked to hear her name, 
As that of one half grandame and half saint, 
Uttered with reverent playfulness. The lads 
And younger men all called her mother, aunt, 
Or granny, with their pet diminutives, 
And bade their lasses and their brides behave 
Right well to one who surely made a link 
'Twixt faulty folk and God by loving both : 



AGATHA. 317 

Not one but counted service done by her, 

Asking no pay save just her daily bread. 

At feasts and weddings, when they passed in groups 

Along the vale, and the good country wine, 

Being vocal in them, made them quire along 

In quaintly mingled mirth and piety, 

They fain must jest and play some friendly trick 

On three old maids ; but when the moment came 

Always they bated breath and made their sport 

Gentle as feather-stroke, that Agatha 

Might like the waking for the love it showed. 

Their song made happy music 'mid the hills, 

For nature tuned their race to harmony, 

And poet Hans, the tailor, wrote them songs 

That grew from out their life, as crocuses 

From out the meadow's moistness. 'T was his song 

They oft sang, wending homeward from a feast — 

The song I give you. It brings in, you see. 

Their gentle jesting with the three old maids. 



Midnight by the chapel bell ! 

Homeward, homeward all, farewell ! 

I with you, and you with me, 

Miles are short with company. 
Heart of Mary, bless the way, 
Keep us all by night and day ! 

Moon and stars at feast with night 
Now have drunk their fill of light. 
Home they hurry, making time 
Trot apace, like merry rhyme. 
Heart of Mary, Tnystic rose, 
Send tcs all a sweet repose ! 



G18 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Swiftly through the wood down hill, 
Run till you can hear the mill 
Toni's ghost is wandering now, 
Shaped just like a snow-white cow. 
Heart of Mary, morning star, 
Ward off danger, near or far ! 

Toni's wagon with its load 
Fell and crushed him in the road 
'Twixt these pine-trees. Never fear ! 
Give a neighbor's ghost good cheer. 
Holy Babe, our God and Brother, 
Bind lis fast to one another! 

Hark ! the mill is at its work, 
Now we pass beyond the murk 
To the hollow, where the moon 
Makes her silvery afternoon. 

Good Saint Joseph, faithful spouse. 
Help us all to keep) our vows ! 

Here the three old maidens dwell, 
Agatha and Kate and Nell ; 
See, the moon shines on the thatch. 
We will go and shake the latch. 
Heart of Mary, cup of joy, 
Give us mirth without alloy ! 

Hush, 't is here, no noise, sing low, 
Rap with gentle knuckles — so ! 
Like the little tapping birds. 
On the door ; then sing good words. 
Meek Saint Anna, old and fair, 
Hallow all the snow-white hair ! 



AGATHA. 319 

Little maidens old, sweet dreams ! 
Sleep one sleep till morning beams. 
Mothers ye, who help us all, 
Quick at hand, if ill befall. 

Holy Gabriel, lily-laden, 

Bless the aged inother-maiden ! 

Forward, mount the broad hillside 

Swift as soldiers when they ride. 

See the two towers how they peep, 

Eound-capped giants, o'er the steep. 
Heart of Mary, by thy sorroio, 
Keep us iipright through the morrow ! 

Now they rise quite suddenly 

Like a man from bended knee, 

Now Saint Margen is in sight. 

Here the roads branch off — good-night. 

Heart of Mary, by thy grace, 

Give us with the saints a place ! 



AEMGAET. 



SCENE I. 



A Salon lit with lamps and ornamented with green plants. 
An open piano, ivith m,any scattered sheets of m,usic. 
Bronze busts of Beethoven and Gluck on pillars oppo- 
site each other. A small table spread with supper. 
To Fraulein Walpurga, who advances with a slight 
lameness of gait from an adjoining room, enters Graf 
DoRNBERG at the opposite door in a travelling dress. 

Graf. 

Good-morning, Fraulein ! 

Walpurga. 

What, so soon returned ? 
I feared your mission kept you still at Prague. 

Graf. 

But now arrived ! You see my travelling dress. 
I hurried from the panting, roaring steam 
Like any courier of embassy 
Who hides the fiends of war within his bag. 

Walpurga. 
You know that Armgart sings to-night ? 

Graf. 

Has sung ! 
'T is close on half-past nine. The Orpheus 



ARMGART. 321 

Lasts not so long. Her spirits — were they high ? 
Was Leo confident ? 

Walpurga. 

He only feared 
Some tameness at beginning. Let the house 
Once ring, he said, with plaudits, she is safe. 

Graf. 
And Armgart ? 

Walpurga. 

She was stiller than her wont. 
But once, at some such trivial word of mine, 
As that the highest prize might yet be won 
By her who took the second — she was roused, 
" For me," she said, " I triumph or I fail. 
I never strove for any second prize." 

Graf. 

Poor human-hearted singing-bird ! She bears 

Caesar's ambition in her delicate breast, 

And naught to still it with but quivering song ! 

Walpurga. 

I had not for the world been there to-night : 
Unreasonable dread oft chills me more 
Than any reasonable hope can warm. 

Graf. 

You have a rare affection for your cousin ; 
As tender as a sister's. 

Walpurga. 

Nay, I fear 
My love is little more than what I felt 



322 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

For happy stories when I was a child. 
She fills my life that would be empty else, 
And lifts my naught to value by her side. 

Graf. 

She is reason good enough, or seems to be, 
Why all were born whose being ministers 
To her completeness. Is it most her voice 
Subdues us ? or her instinct exquisite, 
Informing each old strain with some new grace 
Which takes our sense like any natural good ? 
Or most her spiritual energy 
That sweeps us in the current of her song ? 

Walpurga. 

I know not. Losing either, we should lose 

That whole we call our Armgart. For herself, 

She often wonders what her life had been 

Without that voice for channel to her soul. 

She says, it must have leaped through all her limbs ■ 

Made her a Maenad — made her snatch a brand 

And fire some forest, that her rage might mount 

In crashing roaring flames through half a land, 

Leaving her still and patient for a while. 

" Poor wretch ! " she says, of any murderess — 

" The world was cruel, and she could not sing : 

I carry my revenges in my throat ; 

I love in singing, and am loved again." 

Graf. 

Mere mood ! I cannot yet believe it more. 
Too much ambition has unwomaned her ; 
But only for a while. Her nature hides 
One half its treasures by its very wealth, 
Taxing the hours to show it. 




" Place for the queen of song ! " 



ARMGART, 323 

Walpurga. 

Hark ! she comes. 
(Enter Leo with a wreath in his hand, holdinrj 
the door open for Armgart, who wears a 
furred mantle and hood. She is foUoived by 
her maid, carrying an armful of bouquets.) 

Leo. 
Place for the queen of song ! 

Graf (advancing toivard Armgart, who throws off 
her hood and mantle, and shows a star of brilliants 
in her hair). 

A triumph, then. 
You will not be a niggard of your joy 
And chide the eagerness that came to share it. 

Armgart. 

kind ! yovi hastened your return for me. 

1 would you had been there to hear me sing ! 
Walpurga, kiss me : never tremble more 

Lest Armgart's wing should fail her. She has found 

This night the region where her rapture breathes — 

Pouring her passion on the air made live 

With human heart-throbs. Tell them, Leo, tell them 

How I outsang your hope and made you cry 

Because Gluck could not hear me. That was folly ! 

He sang, not listened : every linked note 

Was his immortal pulse that stirred in mine, 

And all my gladness is but part of him. 

Give me the wreath. 

(She crowns the bust of Gluck^ 

Leo (sardonically). 

Ay, ay, but mark you this : 
It was not part of him — that trill you made 
In spite of me and reason ! 



324 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Armgart. 

You were wrong — 
Dear Leo, you were wrong : the house was held 
As if a storm were listening with delight 
And hushed its thunder. 

Leo. 

Will you ask the house 
To teach you singing ? Quit your Orpheus then, 
And sing in farces grown to operas. 
Where all the prurience of the full-fed mob 
Is tickled with melodic impudence : 
Jerk forth burlesque braruras, square your arms 
Akimbo with a tavern wench's grace. 
And set the splendid compass of your voice 
To lyric jigs. Go to ! I thought you meant 
To be an artist — lift your audience 
To see your vision, not trick forth a show 
To please the grossest taste of grossest numbers. 

Armgart (taking up Leo's hayid and kissing it). 
Pardon, good Leo, I am penitent. 
I will do penance : sing a hundred trills 
Into a deep-dug grave, then burying them 
As one did Midas' secret, rid myself 
Of naughty exultation. Oh I trilled 
At nature's prompting, like the nightingales. 
Go scold them, dearest Leo. 

Leo. 

I stop my ears. 
Nature in Gluck inspiring Orpheus, 
Has done with nightingales. Are bird-beaks lips ? 

Graf. 
Truce to rebukes ! Tell us — who were not there — 
The double drama : how the expectant house 
Took the first notes. 



ARMGART. 325 

Walpurga (turning from her occupation of decking the 
room with the flowers). 

Yes, tell us all, dear Armgart. 
Did you feel tremors ? Leo, how did she look ? 
Was there a cheer to greet her ? 

Leo. 

Not a sound. 
She walked like Orpheus in his solitude, 
And seemed to see naught but what no man saw. 
'T was famous. Not the Schroeder-Devrient 
Had done it better. But your blessed public 
Had never any judgment in cold blood — 
Thinks all perhaps were better otherwise. 
Till rapture brings a reason. 

Armgart (scornfully). 

I knew that ! 
The women whispered, " Not a pretty face ! " 
The men, " Well, well, a goodly length of limb : 
She bears the chiton." — It were all the same 
Were I the Virgin Mother and my stage 
The opening heavens at the Judgment-day : 
Gossips would peep, jog elbows, rate the price 
Of such a woman in the social mart. 
What were the drama of the world to them, 
Unless they felt the hell-prong ? 

Leo. 

Peace, now, peace ! 
I hate my phrases to be smothered o'er 
With sauce of paraphrase, my sober tune 
Made bass to rambling trebles, showering down 
In endless demi-semi-quavers. 



326 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Abmgart {taking a hovA>on from the table, uplifting 
it before putting it into her mouth, and turning 
away). j^^^ , 

Graf. 

Yes, tell us all the glory, leave the blame, 

Walpurga. 
You first, dear Leo — what you saw and heard ; 
Then Armgart — she must tell us what she felt. 

Leo. 

Well ! The first notes came clearly, firmly forth. 

And I was easy, for behind those rills 

I knew there was a fountain. I could see 

The house was breathing gently, heads were still ; 

Parrot opinion was struck meekly mute. 

And human hearts were swelling. Armgart stood 

As if she had been new-created there 

And found her voice which found a melody. 

The minx ! Gluck had not written, nor I taught : 

Orpheus was Armgart, Armgart Orpheus. 

Well, well, all through the scena I could feel 

The silence tremble now, now poise itself 

With added weight of feeling, till at last 

Delight o'er-toppled it. The final note 

Had happy drowning in the unloosed roar 

That surged and ebbed and ever surged again, 

Till expectation kept it pent awhile 

Ere Orpheus returned. Pfui ! He was changed : 

My demi-god was pale, had downcast eyes 

That quivered like a bride's who fain would send 

Backward the rising tear. 



ARMGART. 327 

Armgart {advancing, but then turning away, as if to 
check her speech) . 

I was a bride, 
As nuns are at their spousals. 

Leo. 

Ay, my lady. 
That moment will not come again : applause 
May come and plenty ; but the first, first draught . 

{Snaps his finger si) 
Music has sounds for it — I know no words. 
I felt it once myself when they performed 
My overture to Sintram. Well ! 't is strange. 
We know not pain from pleasure in such joy. 

Armgart (turning quicklij). 
Oh, pleasure has cramped dwelling in our souls, 
And when full Being comes must call on pain 
To lend it liberal space. 

Walpurga. 

I hope the house 
Kept a reserve of plaudits : I am jealous 
Lest they had dulled themselves for coming good 
That should have seemed the better and the best. 

Leo. 
No, 't was a revel where they had but quaffed 
Their opening cup. I thank the artist's star. 
His audience keeps not sober : once afire. 
They flame toward climax though his merit hold 
But fairly even. 

Armgart (Jier hand on Leo's arm). 

Now, now, confess the truth : 
I sang still better to the very end — 



328 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

All save the trill ; I give that up to you, 
To bite and growl at. Why, you said yourself, 
Each time I sang, it seemed new doors were oped 
That you might hear heaven clearer. 

Leo (shaking his finger). 

I was raving. 
Armgart. 
I am not glad with that mean vanity 
Which knows no good beyond its appetite 
Full feasting upon praise ! I am only glad, 
Being praised for what I know is worth the praise ; 
Glad of the proof that I myself have part 
In what I worship ! At the last applause — 
Seeming a roar of tropic winds that tossed 
The handkerchiefs and many-colored flowers, 
Falling like shattered rainbows all around — 
Think you I felt myself a prima donna ? 
No, but a happy spiritual star 
Such as old Dante saw, wrought in a rose 
Of light in Paradise, whose only self 
Was consciousness of glory wide-diffused, 
Music, life, power — I moving in the midst 
With a sublime necessity of good. 

Leo (with a shrug). 
I thought it was a prima donna came 
Witliin the side-scenes ; ay, and she was proud 
To find the bouquet from the royal box 
Enclosed a jewel-case, and proud to wear 
A star of brilliants, quite an earthly star, 
Valued by thalers. Come, my lady, own 
Ambition has five senses, and a self 
That gives it good warm lodging when it sinks 
Plump down from ecstasy. 



ARMGART. 329 

Armgart. 

Own it ? why not ? 
Am I a sage whose words must fall like seed 
Silently buried toward a far-off spring ? 
I sing to living men and my effect 
Is like the summer's sun, that ripens corn 
Or now or never. If the world brings me gifts, 
Gold, incense, myrrh — 't will be the needful sign 
That I have stirred it as the high year stirs 
Before I sink to winter. 

Graf. 

Ecstasies 
Are short — most happily ! We should but lose 
Were Armgart borne too commonly and long 
Out of the self that charms us. Could I choose, 
She were less apt to soar beyond the reach 
Of woman's foibles, innocent vanities. 
Fondness for trifles like that pretty star 
Twinkling beside her cloud of ebon hair. 

Armgart (taking out the gem and looking at it). 

This little star ! I would it were the seed 

Of a whole Milky Way, if such bright shimmer 

Were the sole speech men told their rapture with 

At Armgart's music. Shall I turn aside 

From splendors which flash out the glow I make, 

And live to make, in all the chosen breasts 

Of half a Continent ? No, may it come, 

That splendor ! May the day be near when men 

Think much to let my horses draw me home. 

And new lands welcome me upon their beach, 

Loving me for my fame. That is the truth 

Of what I wish, nay, yearn for. Shall I lie ? 

Pretend to seek obscurity — to sing 



330 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

In hope of disregard ? A vile pretence ! 
And blasphemy besides. For what is fame 
But the benignant strength of One, transformed 
To joy of Many ? Tributes, plaudits come 
As necessary breathing of such joy ; 
And may they come to me ! 

Graf. 

The auguries 
Point clearly that way. Is it no offence 
To wish the eagle's wing may find repose. 
As feebler wings do, in a quiet nest ? 
Or has the taste of fame already turned 
The Woman to a Muse .... 

Leo {going to the table). 

Who needs no supper. 
I am her priest, ready to eat her share 
Of good Walpurga's offerings. 

Walpurga. 

Armgart, come. 
Graf, will you come ? 

Graf. 

Thanks, I play truant here, 
And must retrieve my self-indulged delay. 
But will the Muse receive a votary 
At any hour to-morrow ? 

Armgart. 

Any hour 
After rehearsal, after twelve at noou. 



ARMGART. 331 



SCENE 11. 



The same Salon, morning. Aemgart seated, in her bonnet 
and walking-dress. The Gkaf standing near her 
against the piano. 

Graf. 

Armgart, to many minds the first success 

Is reason for desisting. I have known 

A man so versatile, he tried all arts, 

But when in each by turns he had achieved 

Just so much mastery as made men say, 

"He could be king here if he would," he threw 

The lauded skill aside. He hates, said one, 

The level of achieved pre-eminence, 

He must be conquering still ; but others said — 

Armgart. 
The truth, I hope : he had a meagre soul. 
Holding no depth where love could root itself. 
" Could if he would ? " True greatness ever wills — 
It lives in wholeness if it live at all. 
And all its strength is knit with constancy. 

Graf. 

He used to say himself he was too sane 

To give his life away for excellence 

Which yet must stand, an ivory statuette 

Wrought to perfection through long lonely years. 

Huddled in the mart of mediocrities. 

He said, the very finest doing wins 

The admiring only ; but to leave undone. 

Promise and not fulfil, like buried youth, 

Wins all the envious, makes them sigh your name 



332 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

As that fair Absent, blameless Possible, 
Which oould alone impassion them ; and thus. 
Serene negation has free gift of all, 
Panting achievement struggles, is denied, 
Or wins to lose again. What say you, Armgart ? 
Truth has rough flavors if we bite it through ; 
I think this sarcasm came from out its core 
Of bitter irony. 

Armgart. 

It is the truth 
Mean souls select to feed upon. What then ? 
Their meanness is a truth, which I will spurn. 
The praise I seek lives not in envious breath 
Using my name to blight another's deed. 
I sing for love of song and that renown 
Which is the spreading act, the world-wide share. 
Of good that I was born with. Had I failed — 
Well, that had been a truth most pitiable. 
I cannot bear to think what life would be 
With high hope shrunk to endurance, stunted aims 
Like broken lances ground to eating-knives, 
A self sunk down to look with level eyes 
At low achievement, doomed from day to day 
To distaste of its consciousness. But I — 

Graf. 

Have won, not lost, in your decisive throw. 

And I too glory in this issue ; yet. 

The public verdict has no potency 

To sway my judgment of what Armgart is : 

My pure delight in her would be but sullied, 

If it o'erflowed with mixture of men's praise. 

And had she failed, I should have said, " The pearl 

Remains a pearl for me, reflects the light 



ARMGART. 333 

With the same fitness that first charmed my gaze 

Is worth as fijie a setting now as then." 

Abmgart (rising). 
Oh, you are good ! But why will you rehearse 
The talk of cynics, who with insect eyes 
Explore the secrets of the rubbish-heap ? 
I hate your epigrams and pointed saws 
Whose narrow truth is but broad falsity. 
Confess your friend was shallow. 

Gkaf. 

I confess 
Life is not rounded in an epigram, 
And saying aught, we leave a world unsaid. 
I quoted, merely to shape forth my thought 
That high success has terrors when achieved — 
Like preternatural spouses whose dire love 
Hangs perilous on slight observances : 
Whence it were possible that Armgart crowned 
Might turn and listen to a pleading voice, 
Though Armgart striving in the race was deaf. 
You said you dared not think what life had been 
Without the stamp of eminence ; have you thought 
How you will bear the poise of eminence 
With dread of sliding ? Paint the future out 
As an unchecked and glorious career, 
'T will grow more strenuous by the very love 
You bear to excellence, the very fate 
Of human powers, which tread at every step 
On possible verges. 

Armgart. 

I accept the peril. 
I choose to walk high with sublimer dread 



334 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Ratlier than crawl in safety. And, besides, 

I am an artist as you are a noble : 

I ought to bear the burden of my rank, 

Graf. 

Such parallels, dear Armgart, are but snares 
To catch the mind with seeming arguinent — 
Small baits of likeness 'mid disparity. 
Men rise the higher as their task is high. 
The task being well achieved. A woman's rank 
Lies in the fulness of her womanhood : 
Therein alone she is royal. 

Armgart. 

Yes, I know 
The oft-taught Gospel : " Woman, thy desire 
Shall be that all superlatives on earth 
Belong to men, save the one highest kind — 
To be a mother. Thou shalt not desire 
To do aught best save pure subservience : 
Nature has willed it so ! " blessed Nature ! 
Let her be arbitress ; she gave me voice 
Such as she only gives a woman child, 
Best of its kind, gave me ambition too. 
That sense transcendent which can taste the joy 
Of swaying multitudes, of being adored 
For such achievement, needed excellence. 
As man's best art must wait for, or be dumb. 
Men did not say, when I had sung last night, 
" 'T was good, nay, wonderful, considering 
She is a woman " — and then turn to add, 
" Tenor or baritone had sung her songs 
Better, of course : she 's but a woman spoiled." 
I beg your pardon, Graf, you said it. 



ARMGART. 336 

Graf. 

No! 
How should I say it, Armgart ? I who own 
The magic of your nature-given art 
As sweetest effluence of your womanhood 
Which, being to my choice the best, must find 
The best of utterance. But this I say : 
Your fervid youth beguiles you ; you mistake 
A strain of lyric passion for a life 
Which in the spending is a chronicle 
With ugly pages. Trust me, Armgart, trust me ; 
Ambition exquisite as yours which soars 
Towards something quintessential you call fame. 
Is not robust enough for this gross world 
Whose fame is dense with false and foolish breath. 
Ardor, a-twin with nice refining thought, 
Prepares a double pain. Pain had been saved, 
Nay, purer glory reached, had you been throned 
As woman only, holding all your art 
As attribute to that dear sovereignty — 
Concentring your power in home delights 
Which penetrate and purify the world. 

Armgart. 

What ! leave the opera with my part ill-sung 

While I was warbling in a drawing-room ? 

Sing in the chimney-corner to inspire 

My husband reading news ? Let the world hear 

My music only in his morning speech 

Less stammering than most honorable men's ? 

No ! tell me that my song is poor, my art 

The piteous feat of weakness aping strength — 

That were fit proem to your argument. 

Till then, I am an artist by my birth — 

By the same warrant that I am a woman : 



336 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Nay, in the added rarer gift I see 
Supreme vocation : if a conflict comes, 
Perish — no, not the woman, but the joys 
Which men make narrow by their narrowness. 
Oh, I am happy ! The great masters write 
For women's voices, and great Music wants me ! 
I need not crush myself within a mould 
Of theory called Nature : I have room 
To breathe and grow unstunted. 

Graf. 

Armgart, hear me. 
I meant not that our talk should hurry on 
To such collision. Foresight of the ills 
Thick shadowing your path, drew on my speech 
Beyond intention. True, I came to ask 
A great renunciation, but not this 
Toward which my words at first perversely strayed. 
As if in memory of their earlier suit, 

Forgetful 

Armgart, do you remember too ? the suit 
Had but postponement, was not quite disdained — 
Was told to wait and learn — what it has learned — 
A more submissive speech. 

Armgart {with some agitation). 
Then it forgot 
Its lesson cruelly. As I remember, 
'T was not to speak save to the artist crowned, 
Nor speak to her of casting off her crown. 

Graf. 

Nor will it, Armgart. I come not to seek 
Any renunciation save the wife's, 
Which turns away from other possible love 
Future and worthier, to take his love 



ARMGART. 337 

Who asks the name of husband. He who sovight 
Armgart obscure, and heard her answer, "Waif — 
May come Avithout suspicion now to seek 
Armgart applauded. 

Armgart (turning toward him). 

Yes, without suspicion 
Of aught save what consists with faithfulness 
In all expressed intent. Forgive me, Graf — 
I am ungrateful to no soul that loves me — 
To you most grateful. Yet the best intent 
Grasps but a living present which may grow 
Like any unfledged bird. You are a noble, 
And have a high career ; just now you said 
'T was higher far than aught a woman seeks 
Beyond mere womanhood. You claim to be 
More than a husband, but could not rejoice 
That I were more than wife. What follows, then ? 
You choosing me with such persistency 
As is but stretched-out rashness, soon must find 
Our marriage asks concessions, asks resolve 
To share renunciation or demand it. 
Either we both renounce a mutual ease, 
As in a nation's need both man and wife 
Do public services, or one of us 
Must yield that something else for which each lives 
Besides the other. Men are reasoners : 
That premise of superior claims perforce 
Urges conclusion — " Armgart, it is you." 

Graf. 

But if I say I have considered this 
With strict prevision, counted all the cost 
Which that great good of loving yovi demands — 
Questioned by stores of patience, half resolved 



338 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

To live resigned without a bliss whose threat 

Touched j'ou as well as me — and finally, 

With impetus of undivided will 

Returned to say, *' You shall be free as now ; 

Only accept the refuge, shelter, guard, 

My love will give your freedom" — then your words 

Are hard accusal. 

Armgart. 

Well, I accuse myself. 
My love would be accomplice of your will. 

Graf. 

Again — my will ? 

Armgart. 

Oh, your unspoken will. 
Your silent tolerance would torture me. 
And on that rack I should deny the good 
1 yet believed in. 

Graf. 

Then I am the man 
Whom you would love ? 

Armgart. 

Whom I refuse to love ! 
No ; I will live alone and pour my pain 
With passion into music, where it turns 
To what is best within my better self. 
I will not take for husband one who deems 
The thing my soul acknowledges as good — 
The thing I hold worth striving, suffering for, 
To be a thing dispensed with easily 
Or else the idol of a mind infirm. 



ARMGART. 339 

Graf. 

Armgart, you are ungenerous ; you strain 
My thought beyond its mark. Our difference 
Lies not so deep as love — as union 
Through a mysterious fitness that transcends 
Formal agreement. 

Abmgart. 

It lies deep enough 
To chafe the union. If many a man 
Refrains, degraded, from the utmost right, 
Because the pleadings of his wife's small fears 
Are little serpents biting at his heel — 
How shall a woman keep her steadfastness 
Beneath a frost within her husband's eyes 
Where coldness scorches ? Graf, it is your sorrow 
That you love Armgart. Nay, it is her sorrow 
That she may not love you. 

Graf. 

Woman, it seems, 
Has enviable power to love or not 
According to her will. 

Armgart. 

She has the will — 
I have — who am one woman — not to take 
Disloyal pledges that divide her will. 
The man who marries me must wed my Art — 
Honor and cherish it, not tolerate. 

Graf. 
The man is yet to come whose theory 
Will weigh as naught with you against his love. 

Armgart. 
Whose theory will plead beside his love. 



340 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Gkaf. 

Himself a singer, then ? who knows no life 
Out of the opera books, where tenor parts 
Are found to suit him ? 

Armgaet. 

You are bitter, Graf. 
Forgive me ; seek the woman you deserve. 
All grace, all goodness, who has not yet found 
A meaning in her life, nor any end 
Beyond fulfilling yours. The type abounds. 

Graf. 
And happily, for the world. 

Armgart. 

Yes, happily. 
Let it excuse me that my kind is rare : 
Commonness is its own security. 

Graf. 

Armgart, I would with all my soul I knew 
The man so rare that he could make your life 
As woman sweet to you, as artist safe. 

Armgart. 

Oh, I can live unmated, but not live 
Without the bliss of singing to the world, 
And feeling all my world respond to me. 

Graf. 
May it be lasting. Then, we two must part ? 

Armgart. 
I thank you from my heart for all. Farewell ! 



ARMGART. 341 

SCENE III. 

A YEAR LATER. 

The same salon. Walpurga is standing looking toward 
the window with an air of uneasiness. Doctor 
Gkahn. 

Doctor. 
Where is my patient, Fraulein ? 

Walpurga. 

Fled ! escaped ! 
Gone to rehearsal. Is it dangerous ? 

Doctor. 
No, no ; her throat is cured. I only came 
To hear her try her voice. Had she yet sung ? 

Walpurga. 

No ; she had meant to wait for you. She said, 
'' The Doctor has a right to my first song." 
Her gratitude was full of little plans, 
But all were swept away like gathered flowers 
By sudden storm. She saw this opera bill — 
It was a wasp to sting her : she turned pale, 
Snatched up her hat and mufliers, said in haste, 
" I go to Leo — to rehearsal — none 
Shall sing Fidelio to-night but me ! " 
Then rushed down-stairs. 

Doctor (looking at his icatch). 

And this, not long ago ? 



342 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Walpukga. 



Barely an hour. 



Doctor. 



I will come again, 
Returning from Charlottenburg at one. 

Walpukga. 

Doctor, I feel a strange presentiment. 
Are you quite easy ? 

Doctor. 

She can take no harm. 
'T was time for her to sing : her throat is well, 
It was a fierce attack, and dangerous ; 
I had to use strong remedies, but — well ! 
At one, dear Fraulein, we shall meet again. 



SCENE IV. 

TWO HOURS LATER. 

Walpukga starts up, looldng toward the door, Arm- 
GAKT enters, followed by Leo. She throws herself on 
a chair which stands with its back toward the door; 
speecJiless, not seetning to see anything. Walpukga 
casts a questionhig terrified look at Leo. He shrugs 
his shoulders, and lifts up his hands behind Akmgart, 
who sits like a helpless image, wAtVe Walpukga takes 
off her hat and mantle. 

Walpurga. 

Armgart, dear Armgart (kneeling and taking her 
only speak to me, 




Armgart, Jear Armgart, only speak to me.' 



ARMGART. 343 

Your poor Walpurga. Oh, your hands are cold. 
Clasp mine, and warm them ! I will kiss them warm. 

(Abmgakt looks at her an instant, then draws away 
her hands, and, turning aside, buries her face 
against the hack of the chair, Walpurga rising 
and standing near. Doctor Grahn enters.) 

Doctor. 
News ! stirring news to-day ! wonders come thick. 

Armgart (starting up at the first sound of his voice, 

and speaking vehementlij). 
Yes, thick, thick, thick ! and you have murdered it ! 
Murdered my voice — poisoned the soul in me. 
And kept me living. 

You never told me that your cruel cures 
Were clogging films — a mouldy, dead'ning blight — 
A lava-mud to crust and bury me. 
Yet hold me living in a deep, deep tomb, 
Crying unheard forever ! Oh, your cures 
Are devil's triumphs : you can rob, maim, slay, 
And keep a hell on the other side your cure 
Where you can see your victim quivering 
Between the teeth of torture — see a soul 
Made keen by loss — all anguish with a good 
Once known and gone ! 

(Turns and sinks back on her chair.) 
misery, misery ! 
You might have killed me, might have let me sleep 
After my happy day and wake — not here ! 
In some new unremembered world — not here. 
Where all is faded, flat — a feast broke off — 
Banners all meaningless — exulting words 
Dull, dull — a drum that lingers in the air 
Beating to melody which no man hears. 



344 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Doctor {after a moment''s silence). 

A sudden check has shaken you, poor child ! 
All things seem livid, tottering to your sense, 
From inward tumult. Stricken by a threat 
You see your terrors only. Tell me, Leo : 
'T is not such utter loss. 

(Leo, with a shriuj, goes quietly out.) 
The freshest bloom 
Merely, has left the fruit ; the fruit itself .... 

Armgart. 

Is ruined, withered, is a thing to hide 

Away from scorn or pity. Oh, you stand 

And look compassionate now, but when Death came 

With mercy in his hands, you hindered him. 

I did not choose to live and have your pity. 

You never told me, never gave me choice 

To die a singer, lightning-struck, unmaimed, 

Or live what you would make me with your cures — 

A self accursed with consciousness of change, 

A mind that lives in naught but members lopped, 

A jDower turned to pain — as meaningless 

As letters fallen asunder that once made 

A hymn of rapture. Oh, I had meaning once 

Like day and sweetest air. What am I now ? 

The millionth woman in superfluous herds. 

Why should I be, do, think ? 'T is thistle-seed, 

That grows and grows to feed the rubbish-heap. 

Leave me alone ! 

Doctor. 

Well, I will come again ; 
Send for me when you will, though but to rate me. 
That is medicinal — a letting blood. 



ARMGART. 345 

Armgart. 
Oh, there is one physician, only one, 
Who cures and never spoils. Him I shall send for ; 
He comes readily. 

Doctor (to Walpurga). 

One word, dear Fraulein. 



SCENE V. 

ARMGART, WALPURGA. 

Armgart. 
Walpurga, have you walked this morning ? 

Walpurga. 

No. 

Armgart. 

Go, then, and walk ; I wish to be alone. 

Walpurga. 
I will not leave you. 

Armgart. 
Will not, at my wish ? 

Walpurga. 
Will not, because you wish it. Say no more, 
But take this draught. 

Armgart, 

The Doctor gave it you ? 
It is an anodyne. Pvit it away. 
He cured me of my voice, and now he wants 
To cure me of my vision and resolve — 



346 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Drug me to sleep that I may wake again 

Without a purpose, abject as the rest 

To bear the yoke of life. He shall not cheat me 

Of that fresh strength which anguish gives the soul, 

The inspiration of revolt, ere rage 

Slackens to faltering. Now I see the truth. 

Walpurga {setting down the glass). 

Then you must see a future in your reach, 
With happiness enough to make a dower 
For two of modest claims. 

Armgart. 

Oh, you intone 
That chant of consolation wherewith ease 
Makes itself easier in the sight of pain. 

Walpurga. 
No ; I would not console you, but rebuke. 

Armgart. 
That is more bearable. Forgive me, dear. 
Say what you will. But now I want to write. 

{She rises and moves toward a table.) 

Walpurga. 

I say then, you are simply fevered, mad ; 
You cry aloud at horrors that would vanish 
If you wovild change the light, throw into shade 
The loss you aggrandize, and let day fall 
On good remaining, nay on good refused 
Which may be gain now. Did you not reject 
A woman's lot more brilliant, as some held, 
Than any singer's ? It may still be yours. 
Graf Dornberg loved you well. 



ARMGART. 347 

Armgart. 

Not me, not me. 
He loved one well who was like me in all 
Save in a voice which made that All unlike 
As diamond is to charcoal. Oh, a man's love ! 
Think you he loves a woman's inner self 
Aching with loss of loveliness ? — as mothers 
Cleave to the palpitating pain that dwells 
Within their misformed offspring ? 

Walpurga. 

But the Graf 
Chose you as simple Armgart — had preferred 
That you should never seek for any fame 
But such as matrons have who rear great sons. 
And therefore you rejected him ; but now — 

Armgart. 

Ay, now — now he would see me as I am, 

(She takes up a hand-mirror^ 
Eusset and songless as a missel-thrush. 
An ordinary girl — a plain brown girl, 
Who, if some meaning flash from out her words, 
Shocks as a disproportioned thing — a Will 
That, like an arm astretch and broken off, 
Has naught to hurl — the torso of a soul. 
I sang him into love of me : my song 
Was consecration, lifted me apart 
From the crowd chiselled like me, sister forms. 
But empty of divineness. Nay, my charm 
Was half that I could win fame yet renounce 
A wife with glory possible absorbed 
Into her husband's actual. 

Walpurga. 

For shame ! 
Armgart, you slander him. What would you say 



348 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

If now he came to you and asked again 
That you would be his wife ? 

Arm G ART. 

No, and thrice no ! 
It would be pitying constancy, not love, 
That brought him to me now. I will not be 
A pensioner in marriage. Sacraments 
Are not to feed the paupers of the world. 
If he were generous — I am generous too. 

Walpurga. 
Proud, Armgart, but not generous. 

Armgart. 

Say no more. 
He will not know until — 

Walpurga. 

He knows already. 

Armgart (quicJdi/). 
Is he come back ? 

Walpurga. 

Yes, and will soon be here. 
The Doctor had twice seen him and would go 
From hence again to see him. 

Armgart. 

Well, he knows. 
It is all one. 

Walpurga. 

What if he were outside ? 
I hear a footstep in the ante-room. 



ARMGART. 349 

Abmgart (raising herself and assuming calmness). 
Why let him come, of course. I shall behave 
Like what I am, a common personage 
Who looks for nothing but civility. 
I shall not play the fallen heroine, 
Assume a tragic part and throw out cues 
For a beseeching lover. 

Walpukga. 

Some one raps. 

(Goes to the door.) 
A letter — from the Graf. 

Akmgaet. 

Then open it. 
(Walpurga still offers it.) 
Nay, my head swims. Read it. I cannot see. 

(Walpurga opens it, reads and pauses.) 
Read it. Have done ! No matter what it is. 

Walpurga (reads in a loiv, hesitating voice). 

" I am deeply moved — my heart is rent, to hear of 
your illness and its cruel result, just now communicated 
to me by Dr. Grahn. But surely it is possible that this 
result may not be permanent. For youth such as yours, 
Time may hold in store something more than resigna- 
tion : who shall say that it does not hold renewal ? I 
have not dared to ask admission to you in the hours of 
a recent shock, but I cannot depart on a long mission 
without tendering my sympathy and my farewell. I 
start this evening for the Caucasus, and thence I proceed 
to India, where I am intrusted by the Government with 
business which may be of long duration." 

(Walpurga sits down dejectedly.) 



350 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Armgart (after a slight shudder, bitterly). 
The Graf has much discretion. I am glad. 
He spares us both a pain, not seeing me. 
What I like least is that consoling hope — 
That empty cup, so neatly ciphered " Time," 
Handed me as a cordial for despair. 
{Slowly and dreamily) Time — what a word to fling as 

charity ! 
Bland neutral word for slow, dull-beating pain — 
Days, months, and years ! — If I would wait for them. 

{She takes up her hat and puts it on, then wraps 
her mantle round her. Walpurga leaves the 
room.) 
Why, this is but beginning. (Walpurga re-enters.) Kiss 

me, dear. 
I am going now — alone — out — for a walk. 
Say you will never wound me any more 
With such cajolery as nurses use 
To patients amorous of a crippled life. 
Flatter the blind : I see. 

Walpurga. 

Well, I was wrong. 
In haste to soothe, I snatched at flickers merely. 
Believe me, I will flatter you no more. 

Armgart. 
Bear witness, I am calm. I read my lot 
As soberly as if it were a tale 
Writ by a creeping feuilletonist and called 
" The Woman's Lot : a Tale of Everyday : " 
A middling woman's, to impress the world 
With high superfluousness ; her thoughts a crop 
Of chick-weed errors or of pot-herb facts, 
Smiled at like some child's drawing on a slate. 



ARMGART. 351 

" Genteel ? " " Oh yes, gives lessons ; not so good 

As any man's would be, but cheaper far." 

" Pretty ? " " No ; yet she makes a figure fit 

For good society. Poor thing, she sews 

Both late and early, turns and alters all 

To suit the changing mode. Some widower 

Might do well, marrying her ; but in these days ! . . . . 

Well, she can somewhat eke her narrow gains 

By writing, just to furnish her with gloves 

And droschkies in the rain. They print her things 

Often for charity." — Oh, a dog's life ! 

A harnessed dog's, that draws a little cart 

Voted a nuisance ! I am going now. 

Walpurga. 
Not now, the door is locked, 

Armgart. 

Give me the key ! 

Walpurga. 
Locked on the outside. Gretchen has the key : 
She is gone on errands. 

Armgart. 

What, you dare to keep me 
Your prisoner ? 

Walpurga. 
And have I not been yours ? 
Your wish has been a bolt to keep me in. 
Perhaps that middling woman whom you paint 
With far-off scorn .... 

Armgart. 

I paint what I must be ! 
What is my soul to me without the voice 



352 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Tliat gave it freedom ? — gave it one grand touch 
And made it nobly human ?> — Prisoned now, 
Prisoned in all the petty mimicries 
Called woman's knowledge, that will fit the world 
As doll-clothes fit a man. I can do naught 
Better than Avhat a million women do — 
Must drudge among the crowd and feel my life 
Beating upon the world without response, 
Beating with passion through an insect's horn 
That moves a millet-seed laboriously. 
If I would do it ! 

Walpurga {coldly). 
And why should you not ? 

Armgart {turning quickly). 

Because Heaven made me royal — wrought me out 

With subtle finish toward pre-eminence. 

Made every channel of my soul converge 

To one high function, and then flung me down, 

That breaking I might turn to subtlest pain. 

An inborn passion gives a rebel's right : 

I would rebel and die in twenty worlds 

Sooner than bear the yoke of thwarted life. 

Each keenest sense turned into keen distaste. 

Hunger not satisfied but kept alive 

Breathing in languor half a century. 

All the world now is but a rack of threads 

To twist and dwarf me into pettiness 

And basely feigned content, the placid mask 

Of women's misery. 

Walpurga {indignantly). 
Ay, such a mask 
As the few born like you to easy joy, 



ARMGART. 353 

Cradled in privilege, take for natural 

On all the lowly faces that must look 

Upward to you ! What revelation now 

Shows you the mask or gives presentiment 

Of sadness hidden ? You who every da,j 

These five years saw me limp to wait on you, 

And thought the order perfect which gave me, 

The girl without pretension to be aught, 

A splendid cousin for my happiness : 

To watch the night through when her brain was fired 

With too much gladness — listen, always listen 

To what she felt, who having power had right 

To feel exorbitantly, and submerge 

The souls around her with the poured-out flood 

Of what must be ere she was satisfied ! 

That was feigned patience, was it ? Why not love. 

Love nurtured even with that strength of self 

Which found no room save in another's life ? 

Oh, such as I know joy by negatives. 

And all their deepest passion is a pang 

Till they accept their pauper's heritage. 

And meekly live from out the general store 

Of joy they were born stripped of. I accept — 

Nay, now would sooner choose it than the wealth 

Of natures you call royal, who can live 

In mere mock knowledge of their fellows' woe. 

Thinking their smiles may heal it. 

Armgart {tremulously^. 

Nay, Walpurga, 
I did not make a palace of my joy 
To shut the world's truth from me. All my good 
Was that T touched the world and made a part 
In the world's dower of beauty, strength, and bliss : 
It was the glimpse of consciousness divine 



354 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Which pours out day and sees the day is good. 
Now I am fallen dark ; I sit in gloom, 
Kemembering bitterly. Yet you speak truth ; 
I wearied you, it seems ; took all your help 
As cushioned nobles use a weary serf, 
Not looking at his face. 

Walpurga. 

Oh, I but stand 
As a small symbol for the mighty sum 
Of claims unpaid to needy myriads ; 
I think you never set your loss beside 
That mighty deficit. Is your work gone — 
The prouder queenly work that paid itself 
And yet was overpaid with men's applause ? 
Are you no longer chartered, privileged, 
But sunk to simple woman's penury, 
To ruthless Nature's chary average — 
Where is the rebel's right for you alone ? 
Noble rebellion lifts a common load ; 
But what is he who flings his own load off 
And leaves his fellows toiling ? Rebel's right ? 
Say rather, the deserter's. Oh, you smiled 
From your clear height on all the million lots 
Which yet you brand as abject. 

Armgabt. 

I was blind 
With too much happiness : true vision comes 
Only, it seems, with sorrow. Were there one 
This moment near me, suffering what I feel. 
And needing me for comfort in her pang — 
Then it were worth the while to live ; not else. 

Walpurga. 
One — near you — why, they throng ! you hardly stir 
But your act touches them. We touch afar. 



ARMGART. 355 

For did not swarthy slaves of yesterday 

Leap in tlieir bondage at the Hebrews' flight, 

Which touched them through the thrice millennial dark ? 

But you can find the sufferer you need 

With touch less subtle. 

' Armgart. 

Who has need of me ? 
Walpurga. 
Love finds the need it fills. But you are hard. 

Armgart. 
Is it not you, Walpurga, who are hard ? 
You humored all my wishes till to-day, 
When fate has blighted me. 

Walpurga. 

You would not hear 
The " chant of consolation : " words of hope 
Only imbittered you. Then hear the truth — 
A lame girl's truth, whom no one ever praised 
For being cheerful. " It is well," they said : 
"Were she cross-grained she could not be endured." 
A word of truth from her had startled you ; 
But you — you claimed the universe ; naught less 
Than all existence working in sure tracks 
Toward your supremacy. The wheels might scathe 
A myriad destinies — nay, must perforce ; 
But yours they must keep clear of ; just for you 
The seething atoms through the firmament 
Must bear a human heart — which you had not ! 
For what is it to you that women, men, 
Plod, faint, are weary, and espouse despair 
Of aught but fellowship ? Save that you spurn 
To be among them ? Now, then, you are lame — 



356 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Maimed, as you said, and levelled with the crowd : 
Call it new birth — birth from that monstrous Self 
Which, smiling down upon a race oppressed. 
Says, " All is good, for I am throned at ease." 
Dear Armgart — nay, you tremble — I am cruel, 

Armgart. 

Oh no ! hark ! Some one knocks. Come in ! — come in ! 

{Enter Leo.) 
Leo. 
See, Gretchen let me in. I could not rest 
Longer away from you. 

Armgart. 
Sit down, dear Leo. 
Walpurga, I would speak with him alone. 

(Walpurga goes out.) 

Leo {hesitatingly). 
You mean to walk ? 

Armgart. 
No, I shall stay within. 
{She takes off her hat and mantle, and sits down 
immediately. After a pause, speaking in a sub- 
dued tone to Leo.) 
How old are you ? 

Leo. 

Threescore and five. 

Armgart. 

That 's old. 
I never thought till now how you have lived. 
They hardly ever play your music ? 



ARMGART. 367 

Leo {raising his eyebrows and throwing out his lip). 

No! 
Schubert too wrote for silence : half his work 
Lay like a frozen Rhine till summers came 
That warmed the grass above him. Even so ! 
His music lives now with a mighty youth. 

Armgart. 

Do you think yours will live when you are dead ? 

Leo. 

Ffui ! The time was, I drank that home-brewed wine 
And found it heady, while my blood was young : 
Now it scarce warms me. Tipple it as I may, 
I am sober still, and say : " My old friend Leo, 
Much grain is wasted in the world and rots ; 
Why not thy handful ? " 

Armgart. 

Strange ! since I have known you 
Till now I never wondered how you lived. 
When I sang well — that was your jubilee. 
But you were old already. 

Leo. 

Yes, child, yes : 
Youth thinks itself the goal of each old life ; 
Age has but travelled from a far-off time 
Just to be ready for youth's service. Well ! 
It was my chief delight to perfect you. 

Armgart. 

Good Leo ! Y'ou have lived on little joys. 
But your delight in me is crushed forever. 
Your pains, where are they now ? They shaped intent 



358 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Which action frustrates ; shaped an inward sense 
Which is but keen despair, the agony 
Of highest vision in the lowest pit. 

Leo. 
Nay, nay, I have a thought : keep to the stage, 
To drama without song ; for you can act — 
Who knows how well, when all the soul is poured 
Into that sluice alone. 

Akmgart. 

I know, and you : 
The second or third best in tragedies 
That cease to touch the fibre of the time. 
No ; song is gone, but nature's other gift, 
Self -judgment, is not gone. Song was my speech. 
And with its impulse only, action came : 
Song was the battle's onset, when cool purpose 
Glows into rage, becomes a warring god 
And moves the limbs with miracle. But now — 
Oh, I should stand hemmed in with thoughts and rules • 
Say, " This way passion acts," yet never feel 
The might of passion. How should I declaim ? 
As monsters write with feet instead of hands. 
I will not feed on doing great tasks ill, 
Dull the world's sense with mediocrity, 
And live by trash that smothers excellence. 
One gift I had that ranked me with the best — 
The secret of my frame — and that is gone. 
For all life now I am a broken thing. 
But silence there ! Good Leo, advise me now. 
I would take humble work and do it well — 
Teach music, singing — what I can — not here. 
But in some smaller town where I may bring 
The method you have taught me, pass your gift 



ARMGART. 359 

To others who can use it for delight. 
You think I can do that ? 

{^She pauses with a sob in her voice.) 

Leo. 

Yes, yes, dear child ! 
And it were well, perhaps, to change the place — 
Begin afresh as I did when I left 
Vienna with a heart half broken. 

Aemgaet (roused by surjprise). 
You ? 
Leo. 
Well, it is long ago. But I had lost — 
No matter ! We must bury our dead joys 
And live above them with a living world. 
But whither, think you, you would like to go ? 

Armgart. 
To Freiburg. 

Leo. 
In the Breisgau ? And why there ? 
It is too small. 

Armgart. 
Walpurga was born there, 
And loves the place. She quitted it for me 
These five years past. Now I will take her there. 
Dear Leo, I will bury my dead joy. 

Leo. 
Mothers do so, bereaved ; then learn to love 
Another's living child. 

Armgart. 

Oh, it is hard 
To take the little corpse, and lay it low, 



360 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

And say, " None misses it but me." 

She sings .... 

I mean Paulina sings Fidelio, 

And they will welcome her to-night. 

Leo. 

Well, well, 
'T is better that our griefs should not spread far. 



HOW LISA LOVED THE KING. 

SIX hundred years ago, in Dante's time, 
Before his cheek was furrowed by deep rhyme - 
When Europe, fed afresh from Eastern story, 
Was like a garden tangled with the glory 
Of flowers hand-planted and of flowers air-sown, 
Climbing and trailing, budding and full-blown, 
Where purple bells are tossed amid pink stars. 
And springing blades, green troops in innocent war.? 
Crowd every shady spot of teeming earth, 
Making invisible motion visible birth — 
Six hundred years ago, Palermo town 
Kept holiday. A deed of great renown, 
A high revenge, had freed it from the yoke 
Of hated Frenchmen, and from Calpe's rock 
To where the Bosporus caught the earlier sun, 
'T was told that Pedro, King of Aragon, 
Was welcomed master of all Sicily, 
A royal knight, supreme as kings should be 
In strength and gentleness that make high chivalry. 

Spain was the favorite home of knightly grace. 
Where generous men rode steeds of generous race ; 
Both Spanish, yet half Arab, both inspired 
By mutual spirit, that each motion fired 
With beauteous response, like minstrelsy 
Afresh fulfilling fresh expectancy. 
So when Palermo made high festival. 
The joy of matrons and of maidens all 



362 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Was the mock terror of the tournament, 

Where safety, with the glimpse of danger blent. 

Took exaltation as from epic song, 

Which greatly tells the pains that to great life belong. 

And in all eyes King Pedro was the king 

Of cavaliers : as in a full- gemmed ring 

The largest ruby, or as that bright star 

Whose shining shows us where the Hyads are. 

His the best jennet, and he sat it best ; 

His weapon, whether tilting or in rest, 

Was worthiest watching, and his face once seen 

Gave to the promise of his royal mien 

Such rich fulfilment as the opened eyes 

Of a loved sleeper, or the long-watched rise 

Of vernal day, whose joy o'er stream and meadow flies. 

But of the maiden forms that thick enwreathed 

The broad piazza and sweet witchery breathed, 

With innocent faces budding all arow 

From balconies and windows high and low, 

Who was it felt the deep mysterious glow. 

The impregnation with supernal fire 

Of young ideal love — transformed desire. 

Whose passion is but worship of that Best 

Taught by the many -mingled creed of each young breast ? 

'T was gentle Lisa, of no noble line. 

Child of Bernardo, a rich Florentine, 

Who from his merchant-city hither came 

To trade in drugs ; yet kept an honest fame, 

And had the virtue not to try and sell 

Drugs that had none. He loved his riches well, 

But loved them chiefly for his Lisa's sake. 

Whom with a father's care he sought to make 

The bride of some true honorable man : 

Of Perdicone (so the rumor ran), 



HOW LISA LOVED THE KING. 363 

Whose birth was higher than his fortunes were ; 
For still your trader likes a mixture fair 
Of blood that hurries to some higher strain 
Thau reckoning money's loss and money's gain. 
And of such mixture good may surely come : 
Lords' scions so may learn to cast a sum, 
A trader's grandson bear a well-set head, 
And have less conscious manners, better bred ; 
Nor, when he tries to be polite, be rude instead. 

'T was Perdicone's friends made overtures 

To good Bernardo : so one dame assures 

Her neighbor dame who notices the youth 

Fixing his eyes on Lisa ; and in truth 

Eyes that could see her on this stunmer day 

Might find it hard to turn another way. 

She had a pensive beauty, yet not sad ; 

Kather, like minor cadences that glad 

The hearts of little birds amid spring boughs ; 

And oft the trumpet or the joust would rouse 

Pulses that gave her cheek a finer glow. 

Parting her lips that seemed a mimic bow 

By chiselling Love for play in coral wrought. 

Then quickened by him with the passionate thought, 

The soul that trembled in the lustrous night 

Of slow long eyes. Her body was so slight. 

It seemed she could have floated in the sky, 

And with the angelic choir made symphony ; 

But in her cheek's rich tinge, and in the dark 

Of darkest hair and eyes, she bore a mark 

Of kinship to her generous mother earth, 

The fervid land that gives the plumy palm-trees birth. 

She saw not Perdicone ; her young mind 
Dreamed not that any man had ever pined 



364 rOEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

For such a little simple maid as she : 

She had but dreamed how heavenly it would be 

To love some hero noble, beauteous, great, 

Who would live stories worthy to narrate. 

Like Roland, or the warriors of Troy, 

The Cid, or Amadis, or that fair boy 

Who conquered everything beneath the sun, 

And somehow, some time, died at Babylon 

Fighting the Moors. For heroes all were good 

And fair as that archangel who withstood 

The Evil One, the author of all wrong — 

That Evil One who made the French so strong ; 

And now the flower of heroes must be he 

Who drove those tyrants from dear Sicily, 

So that her maids might walk to vespers tranquilly. 

Young Lisa saw this hero in the king. 

And as wood-lilies that sweet odors bring 

Might dream the light that opes their modest eyne 

Was lily-odored — and as rites divine. 

Round turf -laid altars, or 'neath roofs of stone, 

Draw sanctity from out the heart alone 

That loves and worships, so the miniature 

Perplexed of her soul's world, all virgin pure, 

Filled with heroic virtues that bright form, 

Raona's royalty, the finished norm 

Of horsemanship — the half of chivalry : 

For how could generous men avengers be. 

Save as God's messengers on coursers fleet ? — 

These, scouring earth, made Spain with Syria meet 

In one self world where the same right had sway. 

And good must grow as grew the blessed day. 

No more ; great Love his essence had endued 

With Pedro's form, and entering subdued 

The soul of Lisa, fervid and intense. 



now LISA LOVED THE KING. 365 

Proud in its choice of proiid obedience 
To hardship glorified by perfect reverence. 

Sweet Lisa homeward carried that dire guest, 
And in her chamber through the hours of rest 
The darkness was alight for her with sheen 
Of arms, and plumed helm, and bright between 
Their commoner gloss, like the pure living spring 
'Twixt porphyry lips, or living bird's bright wing 
'Twixt golden wires, the glances of the king 
Flashed on her soul, and waked vibrations there 
Of known delights love-mixed to new and rare : 
The impalpable dream was turned to breathing flesh, 
Chill thought of summer to the warm close mesh 
Of sunbeams held between the citron-leaves, 
Clothing her life of life. Oh, she believes 
That she could be content if he but knew 
(Her poor small self could claim no other due) 
How Lisa's lowly love had highest reach 
Of winged passion, whereto winged speech 
Would be scorched remnants left by mountain flame. 
Though, had she such lame message, were it blame 
To tell wliat greatness dwelt in her, what rank 
She held in loving ? Modest maidens shrank 
From telling love that fed on selfish hope ; 
But love, as hopeless as the shattering song 
Wailed for loved beings who have joined the throng 

Of mighty dead ones Nay, but she was weak — 

Knew only prayers and ballads — could not speak 
With eloquence save what dumb creatures have. 
That with small cries and touches small boons crave. 
She watched all day that she might see him pass 
AVith knights and ladies ; but she said, " Alas ! 
Though he should see me, it were all as one 
He saw a pigeon sitting on the stone 



366 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Of wall or balcony : some colored spot 

His eye just sees, his mind regardeth not. 

I have no music-touch that could bring nigh 

My love to his soul's hearing, I shall die, 

And he will never know who Lisa was — 

The trader's child, whose soaring spirit rose 

As hedge-born aloe-flowers that rarest years disclose. 

" For were I now a fair deep-breasted queen 

A-horseback, with blonde hair, and tunic green 

Gold-bordered, like Costanza, I should need 

No change within to make me queenly there ; 

For they the royal-hearted women are 

Who nobly love the noblest, yet have grace 

For needy suffering lives in lowliest place, 

Carrying a choicer sunlight in their smile, 

The heavenliest ray that pitieth the vile. 

My love is such, it cannot choose but soar 

Up to the highest ; yet forevermore, 

Though I were happy, throned beside the king, 

I should be tender to each little thing 

With hurt warm breast, that had no speech to tell 

Its inward pang, and I would soothe it well 

With tender touch and with a low soft moan 

For company : my dumb love-pang is lone. 

Prisoned as topaz-beam within a rough-garbed stone.' 

So, inward-wailing, Lisa passed her days. 

Each night the August moon with changing phase 

Looked broader, harder on her unchanged pain ; 

Each noon the heat lay heavier again 

On her despair ; until her body frail 

Shrank like the snow that watchers in the vale 

See narrowed on the height each summer morn ; 

While her dark glance burnt larger, more forlorn, 



HOW LISA LOVED THE KING. 367 

As if the soul within her allon fire 
Made of her being one swift fnneral pyre. 
Father and mother saw with sad dismay 
The meaning of their riches melt away : 
For without Lisa what wouhi sequins buy ? 
What wish were left if Lisa were to die ? 
Through her they cared for summers still to come, 
Else they would be as ghosts without a home 
In any flesh that could feel glad desire. 
They pay the best physicians, never tire 
Of seeking what will soothe her, promising 
That aught she longed for, though it were a thing 
Hard to be come at as the Indian snow. 
Or roses that on Alpine summits blow — 
It should be hers. She answers with low voice, 
She longs for death alone — death is her choice ; 
Death is the King who never did think scorn. 
But rescues every meanest soul to sorrow born. 

Yet one day, as they bent above her bed 

And watched her in brief sleep, her drooping head 

Turned gently, as the thirsty flowers that feel 

Some moist revival through their petals steal. 

And little flutterings of her lids and lips 

Told of such dreamy joy as sometimes dips 

A skyey shadow in the mind's poor pool. 

She oped her eyes, and turned their dark gems full 

Upon her father, as in utterance dumb 

Of some new prayer that in her sleep had come, 

" What is it, Lisa ? " " Father, I would see 

Minuccio, the great singer ; bring him me." 

For always, night and day, her unstilled thought, 

Wandering all o'er its little world, had sought 

How she could reach, by some soft pleading touch. 

King Pedro's soul, that she who loved so much 



5b8 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Dying, might have a place within his mind — 
A little grave vphich he would sometimes find 
And plant some flower on it — some thought, some mem- 
ory kind, 
Till in her dream she saw Minuccio 
Touching his viola, and chanting low 
A strain that, falling on her brokenly. 
Seemed blossoms lightly blown from off a tree, 
Each burdened with a word that was a scent — 
Raona, Lisa, love, death, tournament ; 
Then in her dream she said, " He sings of me — 
Might be my messenger ; ah, now I see 
The king is listening — " Then she awoke. 
And, missing her dear dream, that new-born longing spoke. 

She longed for music : that was natiu'al ; 

Physicians said it was medicinal ; 

The humors might be schooled by true consent 

Of a fine tenor and fine instrument ; 

In brief, good music, mixed with doctor's stuff, 

Apollo with Asklepios — enough ! 

Minuccio, entreated, gladly came. 

(He was a singer of most gentle fame — 

A noble, kindly spirit, not elate 

That he was famous, but the song was great — 

Would sing as finely to this suffering child 

As at the court where princes on him smiled.) 

Gently he entered and sat down by her. 

Asking what sort of strain she would prefer — 

The voice alone, or voice with viol wed ; 

Then, when she chose the last, he preluded 

With magic hand, that summoned from the strings 

Aerial spirits, rare yet vibrant wings 

That fanned the pulses of his listener, 

And waked each sleeping sense with blissful stir. 



now LISA LOVED THE KING 369 

Her cheek already showed a slow faint blush, 
But soon the voice, in pure full liquid rush, 
Made all the passion, that till now she felt, 
Seem but cool waters that in warmer melt. 
Finished the song, she prayed to be alone 
With kind Minuccio ; for her faith had grown 
To trust him as if missioned like a priest 
With some high grace, that when his singing ceased 
Still made him wiser, more magnanimous 
Than common men who had no genius. 

So laying her small hand within his palm, 

She told him how that secret glorious harm 

Of loftiest loving had befallen her ; 

That death, her only hope, most bitter were, 

If when she died her love must perish too 

As songs unsung and thoughts unspoken do, 

Which else might live within another breast. 

She said, ''Minuccio, the grave were rest, 

If I were sure, that lying cold and lone. 

My love, my best of life, had safely flown 

And nestled in the bosom of the king ; 

See, 't is a small weak bird, with unfledged wing. 

But you will carry it for me secretly, 

And bear it to the king, then come to me 

And tell me it is safe, and I shall go 

Content, knowing that he I love my love doth know." 

Then she wept silently, but each large tear 
Made pleading music to the inward ear 
Of good Minuccio. " Lisa, trust in me," 
He said, and kissed her fingers loyally ; 
" It is sweet law to me to do your will. 
And ere the sun his round shall thrice fulfil, 
I hope to bring you news of such rare skill 



370 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

As amulets have, that aches in trusting bosoms still." 

He needed not to pause and first devise 

How he should tell the king ; for in nowise 

Were such love-message worthily bested 

Save in fine verse by music rendered. 

He sought a poet-friend, a Siennese, 

And " Mico, mine," he said, " full oft to please 

Thy whim of sadness I have sung thee strains 

To make thee weep in verse : now pay my pains, 

And write me a canzon divinely sad, 

Sinlessly passionate and meekly mad 

With young despair, speaking a maiden's heart 

Of fifteen summers, who would fain depart 

From ripening life's new-urgent mystery — 

Love-choice of one too high her love to be — 

But cannot yield her breath till she has poured 

Her strength aAvay in this hot-bleeding word 

Telling the secret of her soul to her soul's lord." 

Said Mico, "■ Nay, that thought is poesy, 

I need but listen as it sings to me. 

Come thou again to-morrow." The third day, 

When linked notes had perfected the lay, 

Minuccio had his summons to the court 

To make, as he was wont, the moments short 

Of ceremonious dinner to the king. 

This was the time when he had meant to bring 

Melodious message of young Lisa's love : 

He waited till the air had ceased to move 

To ringing silver, till Falernian wine 

Made quickened sense with quietude combine, 

And then with passionate descant made each ear incline 

Love, thmi didst see me, light as morninff's breath, 
Roaming a garden in a joyous error, 
Laughing at chases vain, a happy child, 



HOW LISA LOVED THE KING. 371 

Till of thy countenance the alluring terror 
In majesty from, out the blossoms smiled, 
From out their life seeming a heauteous Death. 

Love, who so didst choose me for thine oivn, 

Taking this little isle to thy great sway, 

See now, it is the honor of thy throne 

That what thou gavest perish not away, 

Nor leave some siveet remembrance to atone 

By life that will be for the brief life gone: 

Hear, ere the shroud o^er these frail limbs be thrown — 

Since every Icing is vassal unto thee. 

My heart'' s lord needs must listen loyally — 

Oh tell him I am ivaiting for my Death ! 

Tell him, for that he hath such royal power 

' Ttvere hard for him to think how small a thing. 

How slight a sign, xvould make a wealthy dower 

For one like me, the bride of that pale king 

Whose bed is mine at some sioift-nearing hour. 

Go to my lord, and to his memory bring 

That happy birthday of my sorroiving 

Wlien his large glance made meaner gazers glad, 

Entering the bannered lists : H was then I had 

The xoound that laid me in the arms of Death. 

Tell him, Love, I am a lowly maid. 
No m.ore than any little knot of thyme 
That he with careless foot m,ay often tread; 
Yet loivest fragrance oft will mount sublime 
And cleave to things most high and hallowed, 
As doth the fragrance of my life's springtime, 
My lowly love, that soaring seeks to climb 
Within his thought, and make a gentle bliss, 
More blissful than if mine, in being his : 
So shall I live in him and rest in Death. 



372 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

The strain was new. It seemed a pleading cry, 

And yet a rounded perfect melody, 

Making grief beauteous as the tear-filled eyes 

Of little child at little miseries. 

Trembling at first, then swelling as it rose. 

Like rising light that broad and broader grows, 

It filled the hall, and so possessed the air 

That not one breathing soul was present there, 

Though dullest, slowest, but was quivering 

In music's grasp, and forced to hear her sing. 

But most such sweet compulsion took the mood 

Of Pedro (tired of doing what he would). 

Whether the words which that strange meaning bore 

Were but the poet's feigning or aught more. 

Was bounden question, since their aim must be 

At some imagined or true royalty. 

He called Minuccio and bade him tell 

What poet of the day had writ so well ; 

For though they came behind all former rhymes, 

The verses were not bad for these poor times. 

" Monsignor, they are only three days old," 

Minuccio said ; " but it must not be told 

How this song grew, save to your royal ear." 

Eager, the king withdrew where none was near, 

And gave close audience to Minuccio, 

Who meetly told that love-tale meet to know. 

The king had features pliant to confess 

The presence of a manly tenderness — 

Son, father, brother, lover, blent in one, 

In fine harmonic exaltation — 

The spirit of religious chivalry. 

He listened, and Minuccio could see 

The tender, generous admiration spread 

O'er all his face, and glorify his head 

With royalty that would have kept its rank 



HOW LISA LOVED THE KING. 373 

Though his brocaded robes to tatters shrank. 

He answered without pause, " So sweet a maid, 

In nature's own insignia arrayed, 

Though she were come of unmixed trading blood 

That sold and bartered ever since the Flood, 

Would have the self-contained and single worth 

Of radiant jewels born in darksome earth, 

Raona were a shame to Sicily, 

Letting such love and tears unhonored be : 

Hasten, Miuuccio, tell her that the king 

To-day will surely visit her when vespers ring." 

Joyful, Minuccio bore the joyous word, 

And told at full, while none but Lisa heard, 

How each thing had befallen, saug the song. 

And like a patient nurse who would prolong 

All means of soothing, dwelt upon each tone, 

Each look, with which the mighty Aragon 

Marked the high worth his royal heart assigned 

To that dear place he held in Lisa's mind. 

She listened till the draughts of pure content 

Through all her limbs like some new being went — 

Life, not recovered, but untried before. 

From out the growing world's unmeasured store 

Of fuller, better, more divinely mixed. 

'T was glad reverse : she had so firmly fixed 

To die, already seemed to fall a veil 

Shrouding the inner glow from light of senses pale. 

Her parents wondering see her half arise — 

Wondering, rejoicing, see her long dark eyes 

Brimful with clearness, not of 'scaping tears. 

But of some light ethereal that enspheres 

Their orbs with calm, some vision newly learnt 

Where strangest fires erewhile had blindly burnt. 

She asked to have her soft white robe and band 



374 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

And coral ornaments, and with her hand 
She gave her locks' dark length a backward fall, 
Then looked intently in a mirror small, 
And feared her face might perhaps displease the king ; 
<' In truth," she said, " I am a tiny thing ; 
I was too bold to tell what could such visit bring." 
Meanwhile the king, revolving in his thought 
That virgin passion, was more deeply wrought 
To chivalrous pity ; and at vesper bell, 
With careless mien which hid his purpose well, 
Went forth on horseback, and as if by chance 
Passing Bernardo's house, he paused to glance 
At the fine garden of this wealthy man, 
This Tuscan trader turned Palermitan : 
But, presently dismounting, chose to walk 
Amid the trellises, in gracious talk 
With the same trader, deigning even to ask 
If he had yet fulfilled the father's task 
Of marrying that daughter whose young charms 
Himself, betwixt the passages of arms, 
Noted admiringly. " Monsignor, no. 
She is not married ; that were little woe. 
Since she has counted barely fifteen years ; 
But all such hopes of late have turned to fears ; 
She droops and fades ; though for a space quite brief — 
Scarce three hours past — she finds some strange relief." 
The king avised : " 'T were dole to all of us. 
The world should lose a maid so beauteous ; 
Let me now see her ; since I am her liege lord. 
Her spirits must wage war with death at my strong 
word." 

In such half-serious playfulness, he wends. 
With Lisa's father and two chosen friends. 
Up to the chamber where she pillowed sits 



HOW LISA LOVED THE KING. 375 

Watching the open door, that now admits 

A presence as much better than her dreams, 

As happiness than any longing seems. 

Tlie king advanced, and, with a reverent kiss 

Upon her hand, said, " Lady, what is this ? 

You, whose sweet youth shoukl otliers' solace be, 

Pierce all our hearts, languishing piteously. 

We pray you, for the love of us, be cheered, 

Nor be too reckless of that life, endeared 

To us who know your passing worthiness. 

And count your blooming life as part of our life's bliss." 

Those words, that touch upon her hand from him 

Whom her soul worshipped, as far seraphim 

Worship the distant glory, brought some shame 

Quivering upon her cheek, yet thrilled her frame 

With such deep joy she seemed in paradise, 

In wondering gladness, and in dumb surprise 

That bliss could be so blissful : then she spoke — 

" Signor, I was too weak to bear the yoke. 

The golden yoke of thoughts too great for me ; 

That was the ground of my infirmity. 

But now, I pray your grace to have belief 

That I shall soon be well, nor any more cause grief." 

The king alone perceived the covert sense 
Of all her words, which made one evidence 
AVith her pure voice and candid loveliness. 
That he had lost much honor, honoring less 
That message of her passionate distress. 
He stayed beside her for a little while 
With gentle looks and speech, until a smile 
As placid as a ray of early morn 
On opening flower-cups o'er her lips was borne. 
When he had left her, and the tidings spread 
Through all the town how he had visited 



376 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

The Tuscan trader's daughter, who was sick, 
Men said, it was a royal deed and catholic. 

And Lisa ? she no longer wished for death ; 

But as a poet, who sweet verses saith 

Within his soul, and joys in music there, 

Kor seeks another heaven, nor can bear 

Disturbing pleasures, so was she content, 

Breathing the life of grateful sentiment. 

She thought no maid betrothed could be more blest ; 

For treasure must be valued by the test 

Of highest excellence and rarity, 

And her dear joy was best as best could be ; 

There seemed no other crown to her delight 

Now the high loved one saw her love aright. 

Thus her soul thriving on that exquisite mood. 

Spread like the May-time all its beauteous good 

O'er the soft bloom of neck, and arms, and cheek. 

And strengthened the sweet body, once so weak, 

Until she rose and walked, and, like a bird 

With sweetly rippling throat, she made her spring joys 

heard. 
The king, when he the happy change had seen, 
Trusted the ear of Constance, his fair queen. 
With Lisa's innocent secret, and conferred 
How they should jointly, by their deed and word, 
Honor this maiden's love, which like the prayer 
Of loyal hermits, never thought to share 
In what it gave. The queen had that chief grace 
Of womanhood, a heart that can embrace 
All goodness in another woman's form ; 
And that same day, ere the sun lay too warm 
On southern terraces, a messenger 
Informed Bernardo that the royal pair 
Would straightway visit him and celebrate 



HOW LISA LOVED THE KING. 377 

Their gladness at his daughter's happier state, 

Which they were fain to see. Soon came the king 

On horseback, with his barons, heralding 

The advent of the queen in courtly state ; 

And all, descending at the garden gate. 

Streamed with their feathers, velvet, and brocade, 

Through the pleached alleys, till they, pausing, made 

A lake of splendor 'mid the aloes gray — 

When, meekly facing all their proud array. 

The white-robed Lisa with her parents stood. 

As some white dove before the gorgeous brood 

Of dapple-breasted birds born by the Colchian flood. 

The king and queen, by gracious looks and speech. 

Encourage her, and thus their courtiers teach 

How this fair morning they may courtliest be 

By making Lisa pass it happily. 

And soon the ladies and the barons all 

Draw her by turns, as at a festival 

Made for her sake, to easy, gay discourse. 

And compliment with looks and smiles enforce ; 

A joyous hum is heard the gardens round ; 

Soon there is Spanish dancing and the sound 

Of minstrel's song, and autumn fruits are pluckt ; 

Till mindfully the king and queen conduct 

Lisa apart to where a trellised shade 

Made pleasant resting. Then King Pedro said — 

" Excellent maiden, that rich gift of love 

Your heart hath made us, hath a worth above 

All royal treasures, nor is fitly met 

Save when the grateful memory of deep debt 

Lies still behind the outward honors done : 

And as a sign that no oblivion 

Shall overflood that faithful memory, 

We while we live your cavalier will be, 



378 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Nor will we ever arm ourselves for fight, 

Whether for struggle dire or brief delight 

Of warlike feigning, but we first will take 

The colors you ordain, and for your sake 

Charge the more bravely where your emblem is ; 

Nor will we ever claim an added bliss 

To our sweet thoughts of you save one sole kiss. 

But there still rests the outward honor meet 

To mark your worthiness, and we entreat 

That you will turn your ear to proffered vows 

Of one who loves you, and would be your spouse. 

We must not wrong yourself and Sicily 

By letting all your blooming years pass by 

Unmated : you will give the world its due 

From beauteous maiden and become a matron true." 

Then Lisa, wrapt in virgin wonderment 

At her ambitious love's complete content, 

Which left no further good for her to seek 

Than love's obedience, said with accent meek — 

" Monsignor, I know well that were it known 

To all the world how high my love had flown, 

There would be few who would not deem me mad, 

Or say my mind the falsest image had 

Of my condition and your lofty place. 

But heaven has seen that for no moment's space 

Have I forgotten you to be the king, 

Or me myself to be a lowly thing — 

A little lark, enamored of the sky. 

That soared to sing, to break its breast, and die. 

But, as you better know than I, the heart 

In choosing chooseth not its own desert, 

But that great merit which attracteth it ; 

'T is law, I struggled, but I must submit, 

And having seen a worth all worth above, 



HOW LISA LOVED THE KING. 379 

I loved you, love you, and shall always love. 

But that doth mean, my will is ever yours. 

Not only when your will my good insures, 

But if it wrought me what the world calls harm — 

Fire, wounds, would wear from your dear will a charm. 

That you will be my knight is full content. 

And for that kiss — I pray, first for the queen's consent." 

Her answer, given with such firm gentleness. 

Pleased the queen well, and made her hold no less 

Of Lisa's merit than the king had held. 

And so, all cloudy threats of grief dispelled. 

There was betrothal made that very morn 

'Twixt Perdicone, youthful, brave, well-born, 

And Lisa, whom he loved ; she loving well 

The lot that from obedience befell. 

The queen a rare betrothal ring on each 

Bestowed, and other gems, with gracious speech. 

And that no joy might lack, the king, who knew 

The youth was poor, gave him rich Ceffalii 

And Cataletta, large and fruitful lands — 

Adding much promise when he joined their hands. 

At last he said to Lisa, with an air 

Gallant yet noble : " Now Ave claim our share 

From your sweet love, a share which is not small : 

For in the sacrament one crumb is all." 

Then taking her small face his hands between, 

He kissed her on the brow with kiss serene. 

Fit seal to that pure vision her young soul had seen. 

Sicilians witnessed that King Pedro kept 

His royal promise : Perdicone stept 

To many honors honorably won, 

Living with Lisa in true union. 

Throughout his life the king still took delight 



380 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

To call himself fair Lisa's faithful knight; 
And never wore in field or tournament 
A scarf or emblem save by Lisa sent. 

Such deeds made subjects loyal in that land: 

They joyed that one so worthy to command, 

So chivalrous and gentle, had become 

The king of Sicily, and filled the room 

Of Frenchmen, who abused the Church's trust. 

Till, in a righteous vengeance on their lust, 

Messina rose, with God, and with the dagger's thrust. 

L'envoi. 

Reader, this story pleased me long ago 

In the bright pages of Boccaccio, 

And where the author of a good we know. 

Let tis not fail to pay the grateful thanks ive owe. 



A MINOR PROPHET. 

I HAVE a friend, a vegetarian seer, 
By name Elias Baptist Butterworth, 
A harmless, bland, disinterested man. 
Whose ancestors in Cromwell's day believed 
The Second Advent certain in five years, 
But when King Charles the Second came instead, 
Revised their date and sought another world : 
I mean — not heaven but — America. 
A fervid stock, whose generous hope embraced 
The fortunes of mankind, not stopping short 
At rise of leather, or the fall of gold, 
Nor listening to the voices of the time 
As houscAvives listen to a cackling hen, 
With wonder whether she has laid her egg 
On their own nest-egg. Still they did insist 
Somewhat too wearisomely on the joys 
Of their Millennium, when coats and hats 
Would all be of one pattern, books and songs 
All fit for Sundays, and the casual talk 
As good as sermons preached extempore. 

And in Elias the ancestral zeal 

Breathes strong as ever, only modified 

By Transatlantic air and modern thought. 

You could not pass him in the street and fail 

To note his shoulders' long declivity. 

Beard to the waist, swan-neck, and large pale eyes ; 

Or, when he lifts his hat, to mark his hair 



382 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Brushed back to show his great capacity — 
A full grain's length at the angle of the brow- 
Proving him witty, while the shallower men 
Only seem witty in their repartees. 
Not that he 's vain, but that his doctrine needs 
The testimony of his frontal lobe. 

On all points he adopts the latest views ; 
Takes for the key of universal Mind 
The " levitation " of stout gentlemen ; 
Believes the Rappings are not spirits' work, 
But the Thought-atmosphere's, a stream of brains 
In correlated force of raps, as proved 
By motion, heat, and science generally ; 
The spectrum, for example, which has shown 
The selfsame metals in the sun as here ; 
So the Thought-atmosphere is everywhere : 
High truths that glimmered under other names 
To ancient sages, whence good scholarship 
Applied to Eleusinian mysteries — 
The Vedas — Tripitaka — Vendidad — 
Might furnish weaker proof for weaker minds 
That Thought was rapping in the hoary past, 
And might have edified the Greeks by raps 
At the greater Dionysia, if their ears 
Had not been filled with Sophoclean verse. 
And when all Earth is vegetarian — 
When, lacking butchers, quadrupeds die out, 
And less Thought-atmosphere is reabsorbed 
By nerves of insects jDarasitical, 
Those higher truths, seized now by higher minds 
But not expressed (the insects hindering), 
Will either flash out into eloquence. 
Or better still, be comprehensible 
By rappings simply, without need of roots. 



A MINOR PROPHET. 383 

'T is on this theme — the vegetarian world — 

That good Elias willingly expands : 

He loves to tell in mildly nasal tones 

And vowels stretched to suit the widest views, 

The future fortunes of our infant Earth — 

When it will be too full of human kind 

To have the room for wilder animals. 

Saith he, Sahara will be populous 

With families of gentlemen retired 

From commerce in more Central Africa, 

Who order coolness as we order coal. 

And have a lobe anterior strong enough 

To think away the sand-storms. Science thus 

Will leave no spot on this terraqueous globe 

Unfit to be inhabited by man. 

The chief of animals : all meaner brutes 

Will have been smoked and elbowed out of life. 

No lions then shall lap Caffrarian pools, 

Or shake the Atlas with their midnight roar : 

Even the slow, slime-loving crocodile, 

The last of animals to take a hint. 

Will then retire forever from a scene 

Where public feeling strongly sets against him. 

Fishes may lead carnivorous lives obscure, 

But must not dream of culinary rank 

Or being dished in good society. 

Imagination in that distant age, 

Aiming at fiction called historical. 

Will vainly try to reconstruct the times 

When it was men's preposterous delight 

To sit astride live horses, which consumed 

Materials for incalculable cakes ; 

When there were milkmaids who drew milk from cows 

With udders kept abnormal for that end 

Since the rude mythopoeic period 



384 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Of Aryan dairymen, who did not blush 

To call their milkmaid and their daughter one — 

Helplessly gazing at the Milky Way, 

Nor dreaming of the astral cocoa-nuts 

Quite at the service of posterity. 

'T is to be feared, though, that the duller boys, 

Much given to anachronisms and nuts 

(Elias has confessed boys will be boys), 

May write a jockey for a centaur, think 

Europa's suitor was an Irish bull, 

.^sop a journalist who wrote up Fox, 

And Bruin a chief swindler upon 'Change. 

Boys will be boys, but dogs will all be moral. 

With longer alimentary canals 

Suited to diet vegetarian. 

The uglier breeds will fade from memory, 

Or, being paloeontological. 

Live but as portraits in large learned books, 

Distasteful to the feelings of an age 

Nourished on purest beauty. Earth will hold 

No stupid brutes, no cheerful queernesses, 

No naive cunning, grave absurdity. 

Wart-pigs with tender and parental grunts, 

Wombats much flattened as to their contour, 

Perhaps from too much crushing in the ark, 

But taking meekly that fatality ; 

The serious cranes, unstung by ridicule ; 

Long-headed, short-legged, solemn-looking curs, 

(Wise, silent critics of a flippant age) ; 

The silly straddling foals, the weak-brained geese 

Hissing fallaciously at sound of wheels — 

All these rude products will have disappeared 

Along with every faulty human type. 

By dint of diet vegetarian 

All will be harmony of hue and line, 



A MINOR PROPHET. 385 

Bodies and minds all perfect, limbs well-turned, 
And talk quite free from aught erroneous. 

Thus far Elias in his seer's mantle : 

But at this climax in his prophecy 

My sinking spirits, fearing to be swamped, 

Urge me to speak. " High prospects these, my friend, 

Setting the weak carnivorous brain astretch ; 

We will resume the thread another day." 

" To-morrow," cries Elias, " at this hour ? " 

" No, not to-morrow — I shall have a cold — 

At least I feel some soreness — this endemic — 

Good-by." 

No tears are sadder than the smile 
With which I quit Elias. Bitterly 
I feel that every change upon this earth 
Is bought with sacrifice. My yearnings fail 
To reach that high apocalyptic mount 
Which shows in bird's-eye view a perfect world, 
Or enter warmly into other joys 
Than those of faulty, struggling human kind. 
That strain upon my soul's too feeble wing 
Ends in ignoble floundering : I fall 
Into short-sighted pity for the men 
Who living in those perfect future times 
Will not know half the dear imperfect things 
That move my smiles and tears — will never know 
The fine old incongruities that raise 
My friendly laugh ; the innocent conceits 
That like a needless eyeglass or black patch 
Give those who wear them harmless happiness ; 
The twists and cracks in our poor earthenware, 
That touch me to more conscious fellowship 
(I am not myself the finest Parian) 



S6 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

With my coevals. So poor Colin Clout, 

To whom raw onion gives prospective zest, 

Consoling hours of dampest wintry work. 

Could hardly fancy any regal joys 

Quite unimpregnate with the onion's scent : 

Perhaps his highest hopes are not all clear 

Of waftings from that energetic bulb : 

'T is well that onion is not heresy. 

Speaking in parable, I am Colin Clout. 

A clinging flavor penetrates my life — 

My onion is imperf ectness : I cleave 

To nature's blunders, evanescent types 

Which sages banish from Utopia. 

" Not worship beauty ? " say you. Patience, friend ! 

I worship in the temple with the rest ; 

But by my hearth I keep a sacred nook 

For gnomes and dwarfs, duck-footed waddling elves 

Who stitched and hammered for the weary man 

In days of old. And in that piety 

I clothe ungainly forms inherited 

From toiling generations, daily bent 

At desk, or plough, or loom, or in the mine, 

In pioneering labors for the world. 

Nay, I am apt when floundering confused 

From too rash flight, to grasp at paradox. 

And pity future men who will not know 

A keen experience with pity blent. 

The pathos exquisite of lovely minds 

Hid in harsh forms — not penetrating them 

Like fire divine within a common bush 

Which glows transfigured by the heavenly guest, 

So that men put their shoes off ; but encaged 

Like a sweet child within some thick-walled cell, 

Who leaps and fails to hold the window-bars, 

But having shown a little dimpled hand 



A MINOE PROPHET. 387 

Is visited thenceforth by tender hearts 
Whose eyes keep watch about the prison walls. 
A foolish, nay, a wicked paradox ! 
For purest pity is the eye of love 
Melting at sight of sorrow ; and to grieve 
Because it sees no sorrow, shows a love 
Warped from its truer nature, turned to love 
Of merest habit, like the miser's greed. 
But I am Colin still : my prejudice 
Is for the flavor of my daily food. 
Not that I doubt the world is growing still 
As once it grew from Chaos and from Night ; 
Or have a soul too shrunken for the hope 
Which dawned in human breasts, a double morn, 
With earliest watchings of the rising light 
Chasing the darkness ; and through many an age 
Has raised the vision of a future time 
That stands an Angel with a face all mild 
Spearing the demon. I too rest in faith 
That man's perfection is the crowning flower, 
Toward which the urgent sap in life's great tree 
Is pressing — seen in puny blossoms now. 
But in the world's great morrows to expand 
With broadest petal and with deepest glow. 

Yet, see the patched and plodding citizen 
Waiting upon the pavement with the throng 
While some victorious world-hero makes 
Triumphal entry, and the peal of shouts 
And flash of faces 'neath uplifted hats 
Run like a storm of joy along the streets ! 
He says, " God bless him ! " almost with a sob, 
As the great hero passes ; he is glad 
The world holds mighty men and mighty deeds ; 
The music stirs his pulses like strong wine, 



88 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

The moving splendor touches him with awe — 

'T is glory shed around the common weal, 

And he will pay his tribute willingly, 

Though with the pennies earned by sordid toil. 

Perhaps the hero's deeds have helped to bring 

A time when every honest citizen 

Shall wear a coat unpatched. And yet he feels 

More easy fellowship with neighbors there 

Who look on too ; and he will soon relapse 

From noticing the banners and the steeds 

To think with pleasure there is just one bun 

Left in his pocket, that may serve to tempt 

The wide-eyed lad, whose weight is all too much 

For that young mother's arms : and then he falls 

To dreamy picturing of sunny days 

When he himself was a small big-cheeked lad 

In some far village where no heroes came. 

And stood a listener 'twixt his father's legs 

In the warm firelight, while the old folk talked 

And shook their heads and looked upon the floor ; 

And he was puzzled, thinking life was fine — 

The bread and cheese so nice all through the year 

And Christmas sure to come. Oh that good time ! 

He, could he choose, would have those days again 

And see the dear old-fashioned things once more. 

But soon the wheels and drums have all passed by 

And tramping feet are heard like sudden rain : 

The quiet startles our good citizen ; 

He feels the child upon his arms, and knows 

He is with the people making holiday 

Because of hopes for better days to come. 

But Hope to him was like the brilliant west 

Telling of sunrise in a world unknown, 

And from that dazzling curtain of bright hues 

He turned to the familiar face of fields 



A mNOR PROPHET. 389 

Lying all clear in the calm morning land. 

Maybe 't is wiser not to fix a lens 

Too scrutinizing on the glorious times 

When Barbarossa shall arise and shake 

His mountain, good King Arthur come again, 

And all the heroes of such giant soul 

That, living once to cheer mankind with hope, 

They had to sleep until the time was ripe 

For greater deeds to match their greater thought. 

Yet no ! the earth yields nothing more Divine 

Than high prophetic vision — than the Seer 

Who fasting from man's meaner joy beholds 

The paths of beauteous order, and constructs 

A fairer type, to shame our low content. 

But prophecy is like potential sound 

Which turned to music seems a voice sublime 

From out the soul of light ; but turns to noise 

In scrannel pipes, and makes all ears averse. 

The faith that life on earth is being shaped 

To glorious ends, that order, justice, love, 

Mean man's completeness, mean effect as sure 

As roundness in the dew-drop — that great faith 

Is but the rushing and expanding stream 

Of thought, of feeling, fed by all the past. 

Our finest hope is finest memory. 

As they who love in age think youth is blest 

Because it has a life to fill with love. 

Full souls are double mirrors, making still 

An endless vista of fair things before 

Repeating things behind : so faith is strong 

Only when we are strong, shrinks when we shrink. 

It comes when music stirs us, and the chords 

Moving on some grand climax shake our souls 

With influx new that makes new energies. 



390 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

It comes in swellings of the heart and tears 
That rise at noble and at gentle deeds — 
At labors of the master-artist's hand 
Which, trembling, touches to a finer end, 
Trembling before an image seen within. 
It comes in moments of heroic love, 
Unjealous joy in joy not made for us — 
In conscious triumph of the good within 
Making us worship goodness that rebukes. 
Even our failures are a prophecy. 
Even our yearnings and our bitter tears 
After that fair and true we cannot grasp ; 
As patriots who seem to die in vain 
Make liberty more sacred by their pangs. 

Presentiment of better things on earth 
Sweeps in with every force that stirs our souls 
To admiration, self-renouncing love, 
Or thoughts, like light, that bind the world in one, ■ 
Sweeps like the sense of vastness, when at night 
We hear the roll and dash of waves that break 
Nearer and nearer with the rushing tide, 
Which rises to the level of the cliff 
Because the wide Atlantic rolls behind. 
Throbbing respondent to the far-oft" orbs. 



BEOTHEE AND SISTER 



I CANNOT choose but think upon the time 
When our two lives greAv like two buds that kiss 
At lightest thrill from the bee's swinging chime, 
Because the one so near the other is. 

He was the elder and a little man 
Of forty inches, bound to show no dread, 
And I the girl that puppy -like now ran. 
Now lagged behind my brother's larger tread. 

I held him wise, and when he talked to me 
Of snakes and birds, and which God loved the best, 
I thought his knowledge marked the boundary 
Where men grew blind, though angels knew the rest. 

If he said " Hush ! " I tried to hold my breath ; 
Wlierever he said '' Come ! " I stepped in faith. 



Long years have left their writing on my brow. 
But yet the freshness and the dew-fed beam 
Of those young mornings are about me now. 
When we two wandered toward the far-off stream 

With rod and line. Our basket held a store 
Baked for us only, and I thought with joy 



392 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

That I should have my share, though he had more, 
Because he Avas the elder and a boy. 

The firmaments of daisies since to me 
Have had those mornings in their opening eyes, 
The bunched cowslip's pale transparency 
Carries that sunshine of sweet memories, 

And wild-rose branches take their finest scent 
From those blest hours of infantine content. 



Our mother bade us keep the trodden ways, 
Stroked down my tippet, set my brother^s frill, 
Then with the benediction of her gaze 
Clung to us lessening, and pursued us still 

Across the homestead to the rookery elms, 
Whose tall old trunks had each a grassy mound, 
So rich for us, we counted them as realms 
With varied products : here were earth-nuts found, 

And here the Lady-fingers in deep shade ; 
Here sloping toward the Moat the rushes grew, 
The large to split for pith, the small to braid ; 
AVhile over all the dark rooks cawing flew. 

And made a happy strange solemnity, 

A deep-toned chant from life unknown to me. 



Our meadow-path had memorable spots : 
One where it bridged a tiny rivulet. 
Deep hid by tangled blue Forget-me-nots ; 
And all along the waving grasses met 




Across the homestead to the rookery elms. 
Whose tall old trunks had each a grassy mound. 



BROTHER AND SISTER. 39 

My little palm, or nodded to my cheek, 
When flowers with upturned faces gazing drew 
My wonder downward, seeming all to speak 
With eyes of souls that dumbly heard and knew. 

Then came the copse, where wild things rushed unseen, 
And black-scathed grass betrayed the past abode 
Of mystic gypsies, who still lurked between 
Me and each hidden distance of the road. 

A gypsy once had startled me at play. 
Blotting with her dark smile my sunny day. 



Thus rambling we were schooled in deepest lore. 
And learned the meanings that give words a soul, 
The fear, the love, the primal passionate store, 
Whose shaping impulses make manhood whole. 

Those hours were seed to all my after good ; 
My infant gladness, through eye, ear, and touch, 
Took easily as warmth a various food 
To nourish the sweet skill of loving much. 

For who in age shall roam the earth and find 
Eeasons for loving that will strike out love 
With sudden rod from the hard year-pressed mind ? 
Were reasons sown as thick as stars above, 

'T is love must see them, as the eyes see light : 
Day is but Number to the darkened sight. 



Our brown canal was endless to my thought ; 
And on its banks I sat in dreamy peace, 



394 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Unknowing how the good I loved was wrought, 
Untroubled by the fear that it would cease. 

Slowly the barges floated into view, 
Hounding a grassy hill to me sublime 
With some Unknown beyond it, whither flew 
The parting cuckoo toward a fresh spring-time. 

The wide-arched bridge, the scented elder-flowers, 
The wondrous watery rings that died too soon. 
The echoes of the quarry, the still hours 
With white robe sweeping on the shadeless noon. 

Were but my growing self, are part of me. 
My present Past, my root of piety. 



Those long days measured by my little feet 
Had chronicles which yield me many a text ; 
Where irony still finds an image meet 
Of full-grown judgments in this world perplext. 

One day my brother left me in high charge, 
To mind the rod, while he went seeking bait. 
And bade me, when I saw a nearing barge, 
Snatch out the line, lest he should come too late. 

Proud of the task, I watched with all my might 
For one whole minute, till my eyes grew wide, 
Till sky and earth took on a strange new light 
And seemed a dream-world floating on some tide - 

A fair pavilioned boat for me alone 

Bearing me onward through the vast unknown. 



BROTHER AND SISTER. 395 



But sudden came the barge's pitch-black prow, 
Nearer and angrier came my brother's cry, 
And all my soul was quivering fear, when lo ! 
Upon the imperilled line, suspended high, 

A silver perch ! My guilt that won the prey, 
Now turned to merit, had a guerdon rich 
Of hugs and praises, and made merry play. 
Until my triumph reached its highest pitch 

When all at home were told the wondrous feat. 
And how the little sister had fished well. 
In secret, though my fortune tasted sweet, 
I wondered why this happiness befell. 

" The little lass had luck," the gardener said : 
And so I learned, luck was with glory wed. 



We had the selfsame world enlarged for each 
By loving difference of girl and boy : 
The fruit that hung on high beyond my reach 
He plucked for me, and oft he must employ 

A measuring glance to guide my tiny shoe 
Where lay firm stepping-stones, or call to mind 
" This thing I like my sister may not do. 
For she is little, and I must be kind." 

Thus boyish Will the nobler mastery learned 
Where inward vision over impulse reigns. 
Widening its life with separate life discerned, 
A Like unlike, a Self that self restrains. 



396 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

His years with others must the sweeter be 
For those brief clays he spent in loving me. 



His sorrow was my sorrow, and his joy 
Sent little leaps and laughs through all my frame ; 
My doll seemed lifeless and no girlish toy 
Had any reason when my brother came. 

I knelt with him at marbles, marked his fling 
Cut the ringed stem and make the apple drop. 
Or watched him winding close the spiral string 
That looped the orbits of the humming top. 

Grasped by such fellowship my vagrant thought 
Ceased with dream-fruit dream-wishes to fulfil ; 
My aery-picturing fantasy was taught 
Subjection to the harder, truer skill 

That seeks with deeds to grave a thought-tracked line. 
And by " What is," " What will be" to define. 



School parted us ; we never found again 
That childish world where our two spirits mingled 
Like scents from varying roses that remain 
One sweetness, nor can evermore be singled. 

Yet the twin habit of that early time 
Lingered for long about the heart and tongue : 
We had been natives of one happy clime. 
And its dear accent to our utterance clung. 



BROTHER AND SISTER. 397 

Till the dire years whose awful name is Change 
Had grasped our souls still yearning in divorce, 
And pitiless shaped them in two forms that range 
Two elements which sever their life's course. 

But were another childhood-world my share, 
I would be born a little sister there. 



STRADIVAEIUS. 

TOUR soul was lifted by the wings to-day- 
Hearing the master of the violin : 
You praised him, praised the great Sebastian too 
Who made that fine Chaconne ; but did you think 
Of old Antonio Stradivari ? — him 
Who a good century and half ago 
Put his true work in that brown instrument 
And by the nice adjustment of its frame 
Gave it responsive life, continuous 
With the master's finger-tips and perfected 
Like them by delicate rectitude of use. 
Not Bach alone, helped by fine precedent 
Of genius gone before, nor Joachim 
Who holds the strain afresh incorporate 
By inward hearing and notation strict 
Of nerve and muscle, made our joy to-day : 
Another soul was living in the air 
And swaying it to true deliverance 
Of high invention and responsive skill : 
That plain white-aproned man who stood at work 
Patient and accurate full fourscore years, 
Cherished his sight and touch by temperance, 
And since keen sense is love of perfectness 
Made perfect violins, the needed paths 
For inspiration and high mastery. 

No simpler man than he : he never cried, 
"Why was I born to this monotonous task 



STRADIVARIUS. 3£ 

Of making violins ? " or flung them down 

To suit with hurling act a well-hurled curse 

At labor on such perishable stuff. 

Hence neighbors in Cremona held him dull, 

Called him a slave, a mill-horse, a machine, 

Begged him to tell his motives or to lend 

A few gold pieces to a loftier mind. 

Yet he had pithy words full fed by fact ; 

For Fact, well-trusted, reasons and persuades, 

Is gnomic, cutting, or ironical. 

Draws tears, or is a tocsin to arouse — 

Can hold all figures of the orator 

In one plain sentence ; has her pauses too — 

Eloquent silence at the chasm abrupt 

Where knoAvledge ceases. Thus Antonio 

Made answers as Fact willed, and made them strong. 

Naldo, a painter of eclectic school, 

Taking his dicers, candlelight and grins 

From Caravaggio, and in holier groups 

Combining Flemish flesh with martyrdom — • 

Knowing all tricks of style at thirty-one. 

And weary of them, while Antonio 

At sixty-nine wrought, placidly his best. 

Making the violin you heard to-day — 

Naldo would tease him oft to tell his aims. 

" Perhaps thou hast some pleasant vice to feed — 

The love of louis d'ors in heaps of four. 

Each violin a heap — I 've naught to blame ; 

My vices waste such heaps. But then, why work 

With painful nicety ? Since fame once earned 

By luck or merit — oftenest by luck — 

(Else why do I put Bonifazio's name 

To work that 'pinxit Naldo ' would not sell ?) 

Is welcome index to the wealthy mob 



400 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Where they should pay their gold, and where they pay 
There they find merit — take your tow for flax, 
And hold the flax uulabelled with your name. 
Too coarse for sufferance." 

Antonio then : 
"I like the gold — well, yes — but not for meals. 
And as my stomach, so my eye and hand. 
And inward sense that works along with both, 
Have hunger that can never feed on coin. 
Who draws a line and satisfies his soul, 
Making it crooked where it should be straight ? 
An idiot with an oyster-shell may draw 
His lines along the sand, all wavering. 
Fixing no point or pathway to a point ; 
An idiot one remove may choose his line,- 
Straggle and be content ; but God be praised, 
Antonio Stradivari has an eye 
That winces at false work and loves the true. 
With hand and arm that play upon the tool 
As willingly as any singing bird 
Sets him to sing his morning roundelay, 
Because he likes to sing and likes the song. 

Then Xaldo : " 'T is a petty kind^of fame 
At best, that comes of making violins ; 
And saves no masses, either. Thou wilt go 
To purgatory none the less." 

But he : 
" 'T were purgatory here to make them ill ; 
And for my fame — when any master holds 
'Twixt chin and hand a violin of mine, 
He will be glad that Stradivari lived, 
Made violins, and made them of the best. 
The masters only know whose work is good : 
They will choose mine, and while God gives them skill 



STRADIVARIUS. 401 

I g 'ive them instruments to play upon, 
G-oc 1 choosing me to help Him." 

" What ! were God 
At fa ult for violins, thou absent ? " 

" Yes ; 
He we /e at fault for Stradivari's work." 

I 
" Why, • many hold Giuseppe's violins 
As good V^ thine." 

" May be : they are different. 
His quality^ declines : he spoils his hand 
With over-di»'inking. But were his the best, 
He could not' work for two. My work is mine, 
And, heresy oi'" not, if my hand slacked 

I should rob God — since He is fullest good 

Leaving a bla nk instead of violins. 

I say, not Gocl Himself can make man's best 

Without best men to help Him. I am one best 

Here in CreuK^na, using sunlight well 

To fashion fini^st maple till it serves 

More cunningly than throats, for harmony. 

'T is rare deliglit : I would not change my skill 

To be the Emperor with bungling hands. 

And lose my wark, which comes as natural 

As self at waki:ig." 

" Thou art little more 
Than a deft pother's wheel, Antonio ; 
Turning out wopk by mere necessity 
And lack of varjcd function. Higher arts 
Subsist on freedi»m — eccentricity — 
Uncounted inspirations — influence 
That comes with Irinking, gambling, talk turned wild. 
Then moody mise'y and lack of food — 
With every dithyi3.mbic tine excess : 
1 



402 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

■V 
These make at last a storm which flashes out 
In lightning revelations. Steady work 
Turns genius to a loom ; the soul must lie 
Like grapes beneath the sun till ripeness comes 
And mellow vintage. I could paint you now 
The finest Crucifixion ; yesternight 
Returning home I saw it on a sky 
Blue-black, thick-starred. I want two louis d'o^^ 
To buy the canvas and the costly blues — 
Trust me a fortnight." 

'' Where are those ;iast two 
I lent thee for thy Judith ? — her thou saw ^ ■' 
In saffron gown, with Holofernes' head 
And beauty all complete ? " 

" She is bu,t sketched : 
I lack the proper model — and the moocl^- 
A great idea is an eagle's egg, 
Craves time for hatching ; while tlie eag^^ sits, 
Feed her." 

"If thou wilt call thy pictui"es eggs 
I call the hatching, Work. 'T is God g ives skill, 
But not without men's hands : He couL-^ ^^^^ make 
Antonio Stradivari's violins f 

Without Antonio. Get thee to thy easj^^- 

1873. 1 



A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 

"OUNG Hamlet, not the hesitating Dane, 
But one named after him, who lately strove 
^ W honors at our English Wittenberg — 
^<" \Jiicl, metaphysical, and sensuous, 
Bio ^^tioning all things and yet half convinced 
Quet'^Vjjj^y were better ; held inert 
Credi;| fascinations of all opposites, 
'Twix\' ^^If suspecting that the mightiest soul 
And ha^^ j^jg own ?) was union of extremes, 
(Perhap.^o choice but choice of everything: 
Having i^jng deep to-day for love of wine, 
As, drinkj ^ ^^if ^ Brahmin, scorning life 
To-morrow msion, yearning for that True 
As mere ill j^q qualities ; another day 
Which has ^fount of grace in sacraments, 
Finding the -..gflgx of the light divine 
And purest i\^ py^ and broidered chasuble, 
In gem-bosse,.^g^p ^^ stockings and to fast 
Resolved to a j^tended, waiting ecstasy ; 
With arms e:! ^amps instead, and needing change, 
But getting c ^^^^ ^ext : 
A would-be p.v Young Hamlet sat 

five of somewhat riper age 
A guest with .^^^i^ Horatio, a friend 
At breakfast A- Qj^g^ j^^^ ^f faithful heart. 
With few opiLf^ ^-^^ fibrous spreading roots 
Quick to detec;^^^ ^^^^ men's theories. 
Of character tl eaknesses with charity 
Yet cloaking w 



404 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

And ready in all service save rebuke. 
With ebb of breakfast and the cider-cup 
Came high debate : the others seated there 
Were Osric, spinner of fine sentences, 
A delicate insect creeping over life 
Feeding on molecules of floral breath, 
And weaving gossamer to trap the sun ; , 

Laertes, ardent, rash, and radical ; fj 

Discursive Eosencranz, grave Guildenstern, 
And he for whom the social meal was made — 
The polished priest, a tolerant listener, la? 

Disposed to give a hearing to the lost, , 'b+ 

And breakfast with them ere they went bel ,w. 

From alpine metaphysic glaciers first t s' 

The talk sprang copious ; the themes werl. 3 old, 

But so is human breath, so infant eyes, , 

The daily nurslings of creative light. h^ 

Small words held mighty meanings : Mv atter. Force, 

Self, Not-self, Being, Seeming, Space a/md Time — 

Plebeian toilers on the dusty road ) 

Of daily traffic, turned to Genii j,i 

And cloudy giants darkening sun andji moon. 

Creation was reversed in human talk j^: 

None said, " Let Darkness be," but Dj larkness was ; 

And in it weltered with Teutonic eas|.e, 

An argumentative Leviathan, / 

Blowing cascades from out his elemf.int, 

The thunderous Eosencranz, till 

""Cruce, I beg!" 
Said Osric, with nice accent. " I al)hor 
That battling of the ghosts, that stidfe of terms 
For utmost lack of color, form, and breath, 
That tasteless squabbling called Ph ilosophy : 
As if a blue-winged butterfly afloat 



A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 405 

For just three days above the Italian fields, 
Poising in sunshine, fluttering toward its bride, 
Should fast and speculate, considering 
What were if it were not ? or what now is 
Instead of that which seems to be itself ? 
Ets deepest wisdom surely were to be 

sipping, marrying, blue-winged butterfly ; 
S^ince utmost speculation on itself 
^^lere but a three days' living of worse sort — 
A Jbruising struggle all within the bounds 
Of lyutterfly existence." 

" I protest," 
Burst\ in Laertes, " against arguments 
That &\tart with calling me a butterfly, 
A bubl^le, spark, or other metaphor 
Which parries your conclusions as a phrase 
In quibbling law will carry property. 
Put a thill sucker for my human lips 
Fed at a n^other's breast, who now needs food 
That I Avili' earn for her ; put bubbles blown 
Prom froth y thinking, for the joy, the love, 
The wants, .the pity, and the fellowship 
(The ocean (jleeps I might say, were I bent 
On bandying^ metaphors) that make a man — 
Why, rhetor ic brings within your easy reach 
Conclusions ^orthy of — a butterfly. 
The universe, I hold, is no charade, 
ISTo acted puni unriddled by a word, 
Kor pain a dtjcimal diminishing 
With hocus-pOcus of a dot or naught. 
For those whcp know it, pain is solely pain : 
Not any lettei^-s of the alphabet 
Wrought syllogistically pattern-wise, 
Nor any cluster of fine images. 
Nor any missing of their figured dance 



406 



POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 



By blundering molecules. Analysis 
May show you the right physic for the ill, 
Teaching the molecules to find their dance, 
Instead of sipping at the heart of flowers. 
But spare me your analogies, that hold 
Such insight as the figure of a crow 
And bar of music put to signify 
A crowbar." 

Said the Priest, "There I agree,' — 
Would add that sacramental grace is grace ,' 
Which to be known must first be felt, with ^11 
The strengthening influxes that come by pr/ayer. 
I note tliis passingly — would not delay / 
The conversation's tenor, save to hint / 
That taking stand with Rosencranz one s/ees 
Final equivalence of all we name 
Our Good and 111 — their difference me/an while 
Being inborn prejudice that plumps ymu down 
An Ego, brings a weight into your scf/de 
Forcing a standard. That resistless /weight 
Obstinate, irremovable by thought, 
Persisting through disproof, an achef'-, a need 
That spaceless stays where sharp aiiialysis 
Has shown a plenum filled without tit — what 
If this, to use your phrase, were ju.jst that Being 
Not looking solely, grasping from tlhe dark. 
Weighing the difference you call E/go ? This 
Gives you persistence, regulates ttfee flux 
With strict relation rooted in the j All. 
Who is he of your late philosophej rs 
Takes the true name of Being to l|)e Will ? 
I — nay, the Church objects naugUat, is content: 
Reason has reached its utmost nelgative, 
Physic and metaphysic meet in t^fiie inane 
And backward shrink to intense (prejudice, 



A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 407 

Making their absolute and homogene 

A loaded relative, a choice to be 

Whatever is —supposed : a What is not 

The Church demands no more, has standing room 

And basis for her doctrine : this (no more) — 

That the strong bias which we name the Soul 

f hough fed and clad by dissoluble waves, ' 

Ijas antecedent quality, and rules 

By veto or consent the strife of thought, 

MaJiiiig arbitrament that we call faith."' 

Her3 was brief silence, till young Hamlet spoke 

"I c.fave direction. Father, how to know 

The sign of that imperative whose right 

To sw;iy my act in face of thronging doubts 

Were a^ oracular gem in price beyond 

Urim ai)d Thummim lost to Israel. 

That bias of the soul, that conquering die 

Loaded with golden emphasis of Will 

How find it where resolve, once made, becomes 

The rash exclusion of an opposite 

Which draw's the stronger as I turn aloof." 

"I think I h.?ar a bias in your words," 

The Priest sa^cl mildly— " that strong natural bent 

Which we cal'l hunger. What more positive 

Than appetit(- ? — of spirit or of flesh, 

I care not — 'sense of need ' were truer phrase. 

You hunger fa^r authoritative right. 

And yet discern no difference of tones, 

No weight of i^od that marks imperial rule ? 

Laertes grantij^g, I will put your case 

In analogic form : the doctors hold 

Hunger which gives no relish — save caprice 

That tasting velnison fancies mellow pears 

A symptom of (disorder, and prescribe 



408 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Strict discipline. Were I physician here 

I would prescribe that exercise of soul 

Which lies in full obedience : you ask, 

Obedience to what ? The answer lies 

Within the word itself ; for how obey 

What has no rule, asserts no absolute claim ? 

Take inclination, taste — why, that is you, 

No rule above you. Science, reasoning 

On nature's order — they exist and move 

Solely by disputation, hold no pledge 

Of final consequence, but push the swing 

Where Epicurus and the Stoic sit 

In endless see-saw. One authority, 

And only one, says simply this, Obey : 

Place yourself in that current (test it so f-) 

Of spiritual order where at least 

Lies promise of a high communion, 

A Head informing members. Life tliat^' breathes 

With gift of forces over and above 

The j^lus of arithmetic interchange. 

' The Church too has a body,' you o\y^^^h 

' Can be dissected, put beneath the )|-6^s 

And shown the merest continuity 

Of all existence else beneath the sr['^* 

I grant you ; but the lens will not Ttiisprove 

A present which eludes it. Take '^[{^^^ ^^*' 

Your highest passion, widest-reachp^^S thought; 

Show their conditions if you will 

But though you saw the final atonp"^*^^^^*^® 

Making each molecule that stand&f ^^^ ^^^^^ 

Of love being present, Avhere is stP^ ^^^^ love ? 

How measure that, how certify itP "^'eight ? 

And so I say, the body of the Chp^'^^^ 

Carries a Presence, promises and f K^f ts 

Never disproved — Avhose argumr^* ^^ found 



A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 409 

In lasting failure of the search elsewhere 

For what it holds to satisfy man's need. 

But I grow lengthy : my excuse must be 

Your question. Hamlet, which has probed right through 

To the pith of our belief. And I have robbed 

3[yself of pleasure as a listener. 

'T is noon. I see : and my appointment stands 

For half-past twelve with Voltimand. Good-by." 

Brief parting, brief regret — sincere, but quenched 

In fumes of best Havana, which consoles 

For lack of other certitude. Then said, 

Mildly sarcastic, quiet Guildenstern : 

'- 1 marvel how the Father gave new charm 

To weak conclusions : I was half convinced 

The poorest reasoner made the finest man. 

And held his logic lovelier for its limp." 

'• I fain would hear," said Hamlet, •• how you find 

A stronger footing than the Father gave. 

How base your self-resistance save on faith 

In some invisible Order, higher Eight 

Than changing impulse. What does Eeason bid ? 

To take as fullest rationality 

"What offers best solution : so the Church. 

Science, detecting hydrogen aflame 

Outside our firmament, leaves mystery 

Whole and untouched beyond ; nay. in our blood 

And in the potent atoms of each germ 

The Secret lives — envelops, penetrates 

Whatever sense perceives or thought divines. 

Science, whose soul is explanation, halts 

With hostile front at mystery. The Church 

Takes mystery a5 her empire, brings its wealth 

Of possibility to fiU the void 



410 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

'Twixt contradictions — warrants so a faith 

Defying sense and all its ruthless train 

Of arrogant ' Therefores.' Science with her lens 

Dissolves the Forms that made the other half 

Of all our love, which thenceforth widowed lives 

To gaze with maniac stare at what is not. 

The Church explains not, governs — feeds resolve 

By vision fraught with heart-experience 

And human yearning." 

" Ay," said Guildenstem, 
With friendly nod, " the Father, I can see. 
Has caught you up in his air-chariot. 
His thought takes rainbow-bridges, out of reach 
By solid obstacles, evaporates 
The coarse and common into subtilties. 
Insists that what is real in the Church 
Is something out of evidence, and begs 
(Just in parenthesis) you '11 never mind 
What stares you in the face and bruises you. 
Why, by his method I could justify 
Each superstition and each tyranny 
That ever rode upon the back of man. 
Pretending fitness for his sole defence 
Against life's evil. How can aught subsist 
That holds no theory of gain or good ? 
Despots with terror in their red right hand 
Must argue good to helpers and themselves, 
Must let submission hold a core of gain 
To make their slaves choose life. Their theory 
Abstracting inconvenience of racks, 
Whip-lashes, dragonnades and all things coarse 
Inherent in the fact or concrete mass, 
Presents the pure idea — utmost good 
Secured by Order only to be found 
In strict subordination, hierarchy 



A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 411 

Of forces where, by nature's law, the strong 

Has rightful empire, rule of weaker proved 

Mere dissolution. What can you object ? 

The Inquisition — if you turn away 

From narrow notice how the scent of gold 

Has guided sense of damning heresy — 

The Inquisition is sublime, is love 

Hindering the spread of poison in men's souls : 

The flames are nothing : only smaller pain 

To hinder greater, or the pain of one 

To save the many, such as throbs at heart 

Of every system born into the world. 

So of the Church as high communion 

Of Head with members, fount of spirit force 

Beyond the calculus, and carrying proof 

In her sole power to satisfy man's need : 

That seems ideal truth as clear as lines 

That, necessary though invisible, trace 

The balance of the planets and the sun — 

Until I find a hitch in that last claim. 

' To satisfy man's need.' Sir, that depends : 

We settle first the ineasure of man's need 

Before we grant capacity to fill. 

John, James, or Thomas, you may satisfy : 

But since you choose ideals I demand 

Your Church shall satisfy ideal man, 

His utmost reason and his utmost love. 

And say these rest a-hungered — find no scheme 

Content them both, but hold the world accursed, 

A Calvary where Reason mocks at Love, 

And Love forsaken sends out orphan cries 

Hopeless of answer ; still the soul remains 

Larger, diviner than yoiir half-way Church, 

Which racks your reason into false consent, 

And soothes your Love with sops of selfishness." 



412 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

"There I am with you," cried Laertes. "What 

To me are any dictates, though they came 

With thunders from the Mount, if still within 

I see a higher Right, a higher Good 

Compelling love and worship ? Though the earth 

Held force electric to discern and kill 

Each thinking rebel — what is martyrdom 

But death-defying utterance of belief. 

Which being mine remains my truth supreme 

Though solitary as the throb of pain 

Lying outside the pulses of the world ? 

Obedience is good : ay, but to what ? 

And for what ends ? For say that I rebel 

Against your rule as devilish, or as rule 

Of thunder-guiding powers that deny 

Man's highest benefit : rebellion then 

Were strict obedience to another rule 

Which bids me flout your thunder." 

" Lo you now ! ■ 
Said Osric, delicately, " how you come, 
Laertes mine, with all your warring zeal 
As Python-slayer of the present age — 
Cleansing all social swamps by darting rays 
Of dubious doctrine, hot with energy 
Of private judgment and disgust for doubt — 
To state my thesis, Avliich you most abhor 
When sung in Daphnis-notes beneath the pines 
To gentle rush of waters. Your belief — 
In essence what is it but simply Taste ? 
I urge with you. exemption from all claims 
That come from other than my proper will, 
An Ultimate within to balance yours, 
A solid meeting you, excluding yoi;, 
Till you show fuller force by entering 
My spiritual space and crushing Me 



A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 413 

To a subordinate complement of You : 

Such ultimate must stand alike for all. 

Preach your crusade, then: all will join who like 

The hurly-burly of aggressive creeds ; 

Still your unpleasant Ought, your itch to choose 

What grates upon the sense, is simply Taste, 

Differs, I think, from mine (permit the word, 

Discussion forces it) in being bad." 

The tone was too .polite to breed offence, 

Showing a tolerance of what was " bad " 

Becoming courtiers. Louder Rosencranz 

Took up the ball with rougher movement, wont 

To show contempt for doting reasoners 

Who hugged some reasons with a preference, 

As warm Laertes did : he gave five puffs 

Intolerantly sceptical, then said : 

" Your human good, which you would make supreme. 

How do you know it ? Has it shown its face 

In adamantine type, with features clear, 

As this republic, or that monarchy ? 

As federal grouping, or municipal ? a 

Eqviality, or finely shaded lines 

Of social difference ? ecstatic whirl 

And draught intense of passionate joy and pain, 

Or sober self-control that starves its youth 

And lives to wonder what the world calls joy ? 

Is it in sympathy that shares men's pangs. 

Or in cool brains that can explain them well ? 

Is it in labor or in laziness ? 

In training for the tug of rivalry 

To be admired, or in the admiring soul ? 

In risk or certitude ? In battling rage 

And hardy challenges of Protean luck, 

Or in a sleek and rural apathy 



414 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Full fed with sameness ? Pray define your Good 

Beyond rejection by majority ; 

Next, how it may subsist without the 111 

Which seems its only outline. Show a world 

Of pleasure not resisted ; or a world 

Of pressure equalized, yet various 

In action formative ; for that will serve 

As illustration of your human good — 

Which at its perfecting (your goal of hope) 

Will not be straight extinct, or fall to sleep 

In the deep bosom of the Unchangeable. 

What will you work for, then, and call it good 

With full and certain vision — good for aught 

Save partial ends which happen to be yours ? 

How will you get your stringency to bind 

Thought or desire in demonstrated tracks 

Which are but waves within a balanced whole ? 

Is ' relative ' the magic word that turns 

Your flux mercurial of good to gold ? 

Why, that analysis at which you rage 

As anti-social force that sweeps you down 

The world in one cascade of molecules, 

Is brother ' relative ' — and grins at you 

Like any convict whom you thought to send 

Outside society, till this enlarged 

And meant New England and Australia too. 

The Absolute is your shadow, and the space 

Which you say might be real were you milled 

To curves pellicular, the thinnest thin, 

Equation of no thickness, is still you." 

" Abstracting all that makes him clubbable," 
Horatio interposed. But Rosencranz, 
Deaf as the angry turkey-cock whose ears 
Are plugged by swollen tissues when he scolds 



A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 415 

At men's pretensions : " Pooh, your ' Relative ' 

Shuts you in, hopeless, with your progeny 

As in a Hunger-tower ; your social good, 

Like other deities by turn supreme, 

Is transient reflex of a prejudice, 

Anthology of causes and effects 

To suit the mood of fanatics who lead 

The mood of tribes or nations. I admit 

If you could show a sword, nay, chance of sword 

Hanging conspicuous to their inward eyes 

With edge so constant threatening as to sway 

All greed and lust by terror ; and a law 

Clear-writ and proven as the law supreme 

Which that dread sword enforces — then your Eight, 

Duty, or social Good, were it once brought 

To common measure with the potent law, 

A¥ould dip the scale, would put unchanging marks 

Of wisdom or of folly on each deed, 

And warrant exhortation. Until then, 

Where is your standard or criterion ? 

' What always, everywhere, l)y all men ' — why, 

That were but Custom, and your system needs 

Ideals never yet incorporate, 

The imminent doom of Custom. Can you find 

Appeal beyond the sentience in each man ? 

Frighten the blind with scarecrows ? raise an awe 

Of things unseen where appetite commands 

Chambers of imagery in the soul 

At all its avenues ? — You chant your hymns 

To Evolution, on your altar lay 

A sacred egg called Progress : have you proved 

A Best unique where all is relative, 

And where each change is loss as well as gain ? 

The age of healthy Saurians, well supplied 

With heat and prey, will balance well enough 



416 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

A human age where maladies are strong 

And pleasures feeble ; wealth a monster gorged 

'Mid hungry populations ; intellect 

Aproned in laboratories, bent on proof 

That this is tliat and both are good for naught 

Save feeding error through a weary life ; 

While Art and Poesy struggle like poor ghosts 

To hinder cock-crow and the dreadful light, 

Lurking in darkness and the charnel-house, 

Or like two stalwart graybeards, imbecile 

With limbs still active, playing at belief, 

That hunt the slipper, foot-ball, hide-and-seek, 

Are sweetly merry, donning pinafores 

And lisping emulously in their speech. 

human race ! Is this then all thy gain ? — 

Working at disproof, playing at belief. 

Debate on causes, distaste of effects. 

Power to transmute all elements, and lack 

Of any power to sway the fatal skill 

And make thy lot aught else than rigid doom ? 

The Saurians were better. — Guildenstern, 

Pass me the taper. Still the human curse 

Has mitigation in the best cigars." 

Then swift Laertes, not without a glare 

Of leonine wrath : " I thank thee for that word : 

That one confession, were I Socrates, 

Should force you onward till you ran your head 

At your own image — flatly gave the lie 

To all your blasphemy of that human good 

Which bred and nourished you to sit at ease 

And learnedly deny it. Say the world 

Groans ever with the pangs of doubtful births : 

Say, life 's a poor donation at the best — 

Wisdom a yearning after nothingness — 

Nature's great vision and the thrill supreme 



A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 417 

Of thought-fed passion but a weary play — 

I argue not against you. Who can prove 

Wit to be witty when with deeper ground 

Dulness intuitive declares wit dull ? 

If life is worthless to you — why, it is. 

You only know how little love you feel 

To give you fellowship, how little force 

Responsive to the- quality of things. 

Then end your life, throw off the unsought yoke. 

If not — if you remain to taste cigars, 

Choose racy diction, perorate at large 

With tacit scorn of meaner men who win 

No wreath or tripos — then admit at least 

A possible Better in the seeds of earth ; 

Acknowledge debt to that laborious life 

Wliich, sifting evermore the mingled seeds, 

Testing the Possible with patient skill. 

And daring ill in presence of a good 

For futures to inherit, made your lot 

One you Avould choose rather than end it, nay, 

Rather than, say, some twenty million lots 

Of fellow-Britons toiling all to make 

That nation, that community, whereon 

You feed and thrive and talk philosophy. 

I am no optimist whose faith must hang 

On hard pretence that pain is beautiful 

And agony explained for men at ease 

By virtue's exercise in pitying it. 

But this I hold : that he who takes one gift 

Made for him by the hopeful work of man. 

Who tastes sweet bread, walks where he will unarmed, 

His shield and warrant the invisible law. 

Who owns a hearth and household charities. 

Who clothes his body and his sentient soul 

With skill and thoughts of men, and yet denies 



418 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

A human good worth toiling for, is cursed 
With worse negation than the poet feigned 
In Mephistopheles. The Devil spins 
His wire-drawn argument against all good 
With sense of brimstone as his private lot, 
And never drew a solace from the Earth." 

Laertes fuming paused, and Guildenstern 

Took up with cooler skill the fusillade : 

" I meet your deadliest challenge, Rosencranz : 

Where get, you say, a binding law, a rule 

Enforced by sanction, an Ideal throned 

With thunder in its hand ? I answer, there 

Whence every faith and rule has drawn its force 

Since human consciousness awaking owned 

An Outward, whose unconquerable sway 

Kesisted first and then subdued desire 

By pressure of the dire Impossible 

Urging to possible ends the active soul 

And shaping so its terror and its love. 

Why, you have said it — threats and promises 

Depend on each man's sentience for their force : 

All sacred rules, imagined or revealed, 

Can have no form or potency apart 

From the percipient and emotive mind. 

God, duty, love, submission, fellowship, 

Must first be framed in man, as music is, 

Before they live outside him as a law. 

And still they grow and shape themselves anew, 

With fuller concentration in their life 

Of inward and of outward energies 

Blending to make the last result called Man, 

Which means, not this or that philosopher 

Looking through beauty into blankness, not 

The swindler who has sent his fruitful lie 



A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 419 

By the last telegram : it means the tide 

Of needs reciprocal, toil, trust, and love — 

The surging multitude of human claims 

Which make " a presence not to be put by " 

Above the horizon of the general soul. 

Is inward Reason shrunk to subtleties, 

And inward wisdom pining passion-starved ? — 

The outward Reason has the world in store, 

Regenerates passion with the stress of want, 

Regenerates knowledge with discovery. 

Shows sly rapacious Self a blunderer. 

Widens dependence, knits the social whole 

In sensible relation more defined. 

Do Boards and dirty-handed millionnaires 

Govern the planetary system ? — sway 

The pressure of the Universe ? — decide 

That man henceforth shall retrogress to ape. 

Emptied of every sympatlietic thrill 

The All has wrought in him ? dam up henceforth 

The flood of human claims as private force 

To turn their wheels and make a private hell 

For fish-pond to their mercantile domain ? 

What are they but a parasitic growth 

On the vast real and ideal world 

Of man and nature blent in one divine ? 

Why, take your closing dirge — say evil grows 

And good is dwindling ; science mere decay. 

Mere dissolution of ideal wholes 

Which through the ages past alone have made 

The earth and firmament of human faith ; 

Say, the small arc of Being we call man 

Is near its mergence, what seems growing life 

Naught but a hurrying change toward lower types. 

The ready rankness of degeneracy. 

Well, they who mourn for the world's dying good 



420 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

May take their common sorrows for a rock, 
On it erect religion and a church, 
A worship, rites, and passionate piety — 
The worship of the Best though crucified 
And God-forsaken in its dying pangs ; 
The sacramental rites of fellowship 
In common woe ; visions that purify 
Through admiration and despairing love 
Which keep their spiritual life intact 
Beneath the murderous clutches of disproof 
And feed a martyr-strength." 

" Religion high ! " 
(Eosencranz here) " But with communicants 
Few as the cedars upon Lebanon — 
A child might count them. What the world demands 
Is faith coercive of the multitude." 

" Tush, Guildenstern, you granted him too much," 

Burst in Laertes ; " I will never grant 

One inch of law to feeble blasphemies 

Which hold no higher ratio to life — 

Full vigorous human life that peopled earth 

And wrought and fought and loved and bravely died — 

Than the sick morning glooms of debauchees. 

Old nations breed old children, wizened babes 

Whose youth is languid and incredulous, 

Weary of life without the will to die ; 

Their passions visionary appetites 

Of bloodless spectres wailing that the world 

For lack of substance slips from out their grasp ; 

Their thoughts the withered husks of all things dead, 

Holding no force of germs instinct with life. 

Which never hesitates but moves and grows. 

Yet hear them boast in screams their godlike ill, 



A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 421 

Excess of knowing ! Fie on you, Rosencranz ! 

You lend your brains and fine-dividing tongue 

For bass-notes to this shrivelled crudity, 

This immature decrepitude that strains 

To fill our ears and claim the prize of strength 

For mere unmanliness. Out on them all ! — 

Wits, puling minstrels, and philosophers, 

Who living softly prate of suicide, 

And suck the commonwealth to feed their ease 

While they vent epigrams and threnodies, 

Mocking or wailing all the eager work 

Which makes that public store whereon they feed. 

Is wisdom flattened sense and mere distaste ? 

Why, any superstition warm with love. 

Inspired with purpose, wild with energy 

That streams resistless through its ready frame, 

Has more of human truth within its life 

Than souls that look through color into naught — 

Whose brain, too unimpassioned for delight, 

Has feeble ticklings of a vanity 

Which finds the universe beneath its mark, 

And scorning the blue heavens as merely blue 

Can only say, ' What then ? ' — pre-eminent 

In wondrous want of likeness to their kind, 

Founding that worship of sterility 

Whose one supreme is vacillating Will 

Which makes the Light, then says, ' 'T were better not.' " 

Here rash Laertes brought his Handel-strain 
As of some angry Polypheme, to pause ; 
And Osric, shocked at ardors out of taste, 
Relieved the audience with a tenor voice 
And delicate delivery. 

"For me, 
I range myself in line with Rosencranz 



422 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Against all schemes, religious or profane, 

That flaunt a Good as pretext for a lash 

To flog us all who have the better taste. 

Into conformity, requiring me 

At peril of the thong and sharp disgrace 

To care how mere Philistines pass their lives ; 

Whether the English pauper-total grows 

From one to two before the nauglits ; how far 

Teuton will ovitbreed Roman ; if the class 

Of proletaires will make a federal band 

To bind all Europe and America, 

Throw, in their wrestling, every government, 

Sna,tch the world's purse and keep the guillotine ; 

Or else (admitting these are casualties) 

Driving my soul with scientific hail 

That shuts the landscape out with particles ; 

Insisting that the Palingenesis 

Means telegraphs and measure of the rate 

At which the stars move — nobody knows where. 

So far, my Eosencranz, we are at one. 

But not when you blaspheme the life of Art, 

The sweet perennial youth of Poesy, 

Which asks no logic but its sensuous growth, 

No right but loveliness ; which fearless strolls 

Betwixt the burning mountain and the sea, 

Eeckless of earthquake and the lava stream. 

Filling its hour with beauty. It knows naught 

Of bitter strife, denial, grim resolve, 

Sour resignation, busy emphasis 

Of fresh illusions named the new-born True, 

Old Error's latest child ; but as a lake 

Images all things, yet within its depths 

Dreams them all lovelier — thrills with sound 

And makes a harp of plenteous liquid chords — 

So Art or Poesy : we its votaries 



A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 423 

Are the Olympians, fortunately born 

From the elemental mixture ; 't is our lot 

To pass more swiftly than the Delian God, 

But still the earth breaks into flowers for us, 

And mortal sorrows when they reach our ears 

Are dying falls to melody divine. 

Hatred, Avar, vice, crime, sin, those human storms. 

Cyclones, floods, what you will — outbursts of force — 

Feed art with contrast, give the grander touch 

To the master's pencil and the poet's song, 

Serve as Vesuvian fii-es or navies tossed 

On yawning waters, which when viewed afar 

Deepen the calm sublime of those choice souls 

Who keep the heights of poesy and turn 

A fleckless mirror to the various world, 

Giving its many-named and fitful flux 

An imaged, harmless, spiritual life, 

With pure selection, native to art's frame, 

Of beauty only, save its minor scale 

Of ill and pain to give the ideal joy 

A keener edge. This is a mongrel globe ; 

All finer being wrought from its coarse earth 

Is but accepted privilege : what else 

Y®ur boasted virtue, which proclaims itself 

A good above the average consciousness ? 

Nature exists by partiality 

(Each planet's poise must carry two extremes 

With verging breadths of minor wretchedness) : 

We are her favorites and accept our wings. 

For your accusal, Eosencranz, that art 

Shares in the dr^d and weakness of the time, 

I hold it null ; since art or poesy pure, 

Being blameless by all standards save her own, 

Takes no account of modern or antique 

In morals, science, or philosophy : 



424 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

No dull elenchus makes a yoke for her, 
Whose law and measure are the sweet consent 
Of sensibilities that move apart 
From rise or fall of systems, states or creeds — 
Apart from what Philistines call man's weal," 

'' Ay, we all know those votaries of the Muse 
Ravished with singing till they quite forgot 
Their manhood, sang, and gaped, and took no food, 
Then died of emptiness, and for reward 
Lived on as grasshoppers " — Laertes thus : 
But then he checked himself as one who feels 
His muscles dangerous, and Guildenstern 
Filled up the pause with calmer confidence. 

'' You use your wings, my Osric, poise yourself 

Safely outside all reach of argument. 

Then dogmatize at will (a method known 

To ancient women and philosophers. 

Nay, to Philistines whom you most abhor); 

Else, could an arrow reach you, I should ask 

Whence came taste, beauty, sensibilities 

Refined to preference infallible ? 

Doubtless, ye 're gods — these odors ye inhale, 

A sacrificial scent. But how, I pray, . 

Are odors made, if not by gradual change 

Of sense or substance ? Is your beautiful 

A seedless, rootless flower, or has it grown 

AVith human growth, which means the rising sun 

Of human struggle, order, knowledge ? — sense 

Trained to a fuller record, more exact — 

To truer guidance of each passionate force ? 

Get me your roseate flesh without the blood ; 

Get fine aromas without structure wrought 

From simpler being into manifold : 



A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 425 

Then and then only flaunt your Beautiful 

As what can live apart from thought, creeds, states, 

AVhich mean life's structure. Osric, I beseech — 

The infallible should be more catholic — 

Join in a war-dance with the cannibals, 

Hear Chinese music, love a face tattooed, 

Give adoration to a pointed skull. 

And think the Hindu Siva looks divine : 

'T is art, 't is poesy. Say, you object : 

How came you by that lofty dissidence, 

If not through changes in the social man 

Widening his consciousness from Here and Now 

To larger wholes beyond the reach of sense ; 

Controlling to a fuller harmony 

The thrill of passion and the rule of fact ; 

And paling false ideals in the light 

Of full-rayed sensibilities which blend 

Triith and desire ? Taste, beauty, what are they 

But the soul's choice toward perfect bias wrought 

By finer balance of a fuller growth — 

Sense brought to subtlest metamorphosis 

Through love, thought, joy — the general human store 

Which grows from all life's functions ? As the plant 

Holds its corolla, purple, delicate. 

Solely as outflush of that energy 

Which moves transformingly in root and branch." 

Guildenstern paused, and Hamlet quivering 

Since Osric spoke, in transit imminent 

From catholic striving into laxity. 

Ventured his word. " Seems to me, Guildenstern, 

Your argument, though shattering Osric's point 

That sensibilities can move apart 

From social order, yet has not annulled 

His thesis that the life of poesy 



426 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

(Admitting it must grow from out the whole) 

Has separate functions, a transfigured realm 

Freed from the rigors of the practical, 

Where what is hidden from the grosser world — 

Stormed down by roar of engines and the shouts 

Of eager concourse — rises beauteous 

As voice of water-drops in sapphire caves ; 

A realm where finest spirits have free sway 

In exquisite selection, uncontrolled 

By hard material necessity 

Of cause and consequence. For you will grant 

The Ideal has discoveries Avhich ask 

No test, no faith, save that we joy in them : 

A new-found continent, with spreading lands 

Where pleasure charters all, where virtue, rank, 

Use, right, and truth have but one name, Delight. 

Thus Art's creations, when etherealized 

To least admixture of the grosser fact 

Delight may stamp as highest." 

" Possible ! " 
Said Guildenstern, with touch of weariness, 
" But then we might dispute of what is gross, 
What high, what low." 

" Nay," said Laertes, " ask 
The mightiest makers who have reigned, still reign 
Within the ideal realm. See if their thought 
Be drained of practice and the thick warm blood 
Of hearts that beat in action various 
Through the wide drama of the struggling world. 
Good-by, Horatio." 

Each now said " Good-by." 
Such breakfast, such beginning of the day 



A COLLEGE BREAKFAST-PARTY. 427 

Is more than half the whole. The sun was hot 

On southward branches of the meadow elms, 

The shadows slowly farther crept and veered 

Like changing memories, and Hamlet strolled 

Alone and dubious on the empurpled path 

Between the waving grasses of new June 

Close by the stream where well-compacted boats 

Were moored or moving with a lazy creak 

To the soft dip of oars. All sounds were light 

As tiny silver bells upon the robes 

Of hovering silence. Birds made twitterings 

That seemed but Silence' self o'erfuU of love. 

'T was invitation all to sweet repose ; 

And Hamlet, drowsy with the mingled draughts 

Of cider and conflicting sentiments, 

Chose a green couch and watched with half-closed eyes 

The meadow-road, the stream and dreamy lights, 

Until they merged themselves in sequence strange 

With undulating ether, time, the soul, 

The will supreme, the individual claim, 

The social Ought, the lyrist's liberty, 

Democritus, Pythagoras, in talk 

With Anselm, Darwin, Comte, and Schopenhauer, 

The poets rising slow from out their tombs 

Summoned as arbiters — that border-world 

Of dozing, ere the sense is fully locked. 

And then he dreamed a dream so luminous 
He woke (he says) convinced ; but what it taught 
Withholds as yet. Perhaps those graver shades 
Admonished him that visions told in haste 
Part with their virtues to the squandering lips 
And leave the soul in wider emptiness. 

April, 1874. 



TWO LOVERS. 

TWO lovers by a moss-grown spring : 
They leaned soft cheeks together there, 
Mingled the dark and sunny hair, 
And heard the wooing thrushes sing. 
budding time ! 
love's blest prime ! 

Two wedded from the portal stept : 
The bells made happy carollings, 
The air was soft as fanning wings, 
White petals on the pathway slept. 
O pure-eyed bride ! 
tender pride ! 

Two faces o'er a cradle bent : 

Two hands above the head were locked : 
These pressed each other while they rocked, 
Those watched a life that love had sent. 
O solemn hou^r ! 
hidden power ! 

Two parents by the evening fire : 
The red light fell about their knees 
On heads that rose by slow degrees 
Like buds upon the lily spire. 

O patient life ! 
tender strife ! 




iiti3Mliau-_ai :„ 



u:/;ii!iiii«;:;iii;:i:;Ht,;lll::i.»..iii::.:;:;i;;a',''iaiiim,iii 



" Two lovers by a moss-growii spring." 



TWO LOVERS. 429 

The two still sat together there, 

The red light shone about their knees ; 
But all the heads by slow degrees 
Had gone and left that lonely pair. 
voyage fast ! 
vanished past ! 

The red light shone upon the floor 

And made the space between them wide ; 
They di-ew their chairs up side by side, 

Their pale cheeks joined, and said, "Once more ! " 



memories ! 
past that is ! 



1866. 



SELF AND LIFE. 

Self. 

CHANGEFUL comrade, Life of mine, 
Before we two must part, 
I will tell thee, thou shalt say, 

What thou hast been and art. 
Ere I lose my hold of thee 
Justify thyself to me. 

Life. 

I was thy warmth upon thy mother's knee 

When light and love within her eyes were one : 

We laughed together by the laurel-tree. 

Culling warm daisies 'neath the sloping sun ; 

We heard the chickens' lazy croon. 

Where the trellised woodbines grew, 
And all the summer afternoon 
Mystic gladness o'er thee threw. 
Was it person ? Was it thing ? 
Was it touch or whispering ? 
It was bliss and it was I : 
Bliss was what thou knew'st me by. 

Self. 
Soon I knew thee more by Fear 

And sense of what was not. 
Haunting all I held most dear ; 

I had a double lot : 
Ardor, cheated with alloy, 
Wept the more for dreams of joy. 



SELF AND LIFE. 431 



Life, 



Eemember how thy ardor's magic sense 

Made poor things rich to thee and small things great ; 
How hearth and garden, field and bushy fence, 

Were thy own eager love incorporate ; 

And how the solemn, splendid Past 

O'er thy early widened earth 
Made grandeur, as on sunset cast 
Dark elms near take mighty girth. 
Hands and feet were tiny still 
When we knew the historic thrill, 
Breathed deep breath in heroes dead, 
Tasted the immortals' bread. 

Self, 

Seeing what I might have been 

Reproved the thing I was, 
Smoke on heaven's clearest sheen, 

The speck within the rose. 
By revered ones' frailties stung 
Reverence was with anguish wrung. 

Life. 

But all thy anguish and thy discontent 
Was growth of mine, the elemental strife 

Toward feeling manifold with vision blent 
To wider thought : I was no vulgar life 

That, like the water-mirrored ape. 

Not discerns the thing it sees, 
Nor knows its own in others 

Railing, scorning, at its ease, 



432 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Half man's truth miist hidden lie 
If unlit by Sorrow's eye. 
I by Sorrow wrought in thee 
Willing pain of ministry. 

Self. 
Slowly was the lesson taught 

Through passion, error, care ; 
Insight was the loathing fraught 

And effort with despair. 
Written on the wall I saw 
" Bow ! " I knew, not loved, the law. 

Life. 
But then I brought a love that wrote within 

The law of gratitude, and made thy heart 
Beat to the heavenly tune of seraphim 

Whose only joy in having is, to impart : 

Till thou, poor Self — despite thy ire. 

Wrestling 'gainst my mingled share, 
Thy faults, hard falls, and vain desire 
Still to be what others were — 
Filled, o'erflowed with tenderness 
Seeming more as thou wert less. 
Knew me through that anguish past 
As a fellowship more vast. 

Self. 
Yea, I embrace thee, changeful Life ! 

Far-sent, unchosen mate ! 
Self and thou, no more at strife. 

Shall wed in hallowed state. 
Willing spousals now shall prove 
Life is justified by love. 



SWEET EVENINGS COME AND GO, LOVE; 

" La noche buena se viene, 

La noche buena se va, 
Y nosotros nos iremos 

Y no volveremos mas." 

— Old Villancko. 

SWEET evenings come and go, love, 
They came and went of yore : 
This evening of onr life, love, 
Shall go and come no more. 

When we have passed away, love, 
All things will keep their name ; 
But yet no life on earth, love. 
With ours will be same. 

The daisies will be there, love. 
The stars in heaven will shine : 

I shall not feel thy wish, love. 
Nor thou my hand in thine. 

A better time will come, love. 

And better souls be born : 
I would not be the best, love, 

To leave thee now forlorn. 



THE DEATH OF MOSES. 

MOSES, who spake with God as with his friend, 
And ruled his people with the twofold power 
Of wisdom that can dare and still be meek, 
Was writing his last word, the sacred name 
Unutterable of that Eternal Will 
Which was and is and evermore shall be. 
Yet was his task not finished, for the flock 
Needed its shepherd and the life-taught sage 
Leaves no successor ; but to chosen men. 
The rescuers and guides of Israel, 
A death was given called the Death of Grace, 
Which freed them from the burden of the flesh 
But left them rulers of the multitude 
And loved companions of the lonely. This 
Was God's last gift to Moses, this the hour 
When soul must part from self and be but soul. 

God spake to Gabriel, the messenger 

Of mildest death that draws the parting life 

Gently, as when a little rosy child 

Lifts up its lips from off the bowl of milk 

And so draws forth a curl that dipped its gold 

In the soft white — thus Gabriel draws the soul. 

" Go bring the soul of Moses unto me ! " 

And the awe-stricken angel answered, " Lord, 

How shall I dare to take his life who lives 

Sole of his kind, not to be likened once 

In all the generations of the earth ? " 



THE DEATH OF MOSES. 435 

Then God called Micliael, liim of pensive brow, 
Snow-vest and flaming sword, who knows and acts : 
" Go bring the spirit of Moses unto me ! " 
But Michaiil with such grief as angels feel. 
Loving the mortals whom they siiccor, pled : 
" Almighty, spare me ; it was I who taught 
Thy servant Moses ; he is part of me 
As I of thy deep secrets, knowing them." 

Then God called Zamaiil, the terrible, 

The angel of fierce death, of agony 

That comes in battle and in pestilence 

Remorseless, sudden or with lingering throes. 

And Zamael, his raiment and broad wings 

Blood-tinctured, the dark lustre of his eyes 

Shrouding the red, fell like the gathering night 

Before the prophet. But that radiance 

Won from the heavenly presence in the mount 

Gleamed on the prophet's brow and dazzling pierced 

Its conscious opposite : the angel turned 

His murky gaze aloof and inly said : 

" An angel this, deathless to angel's stroke." 

But Moses felt the subtly nearing dark : 

" Who art thou ? and what wilt thou ? " Zamael then : 

'■'■ I am God's reaper ; through the fields of life 

I gather ripened and unripened souls 

Both willing and unwilling. And I come 

Now to reap thee." But Moses cried. 

Firm as a seer who waits the trusted sign : 

" Reap thou the fruitless plant and common herb — 

Not him who from the womb was sanctified 

To teach the law of purity and love." 

And Zamael bafiled from his errand fled. 



436 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

But Moses, pausing, in the air serene 
Heard now that mystic whisper, far yet near, 
The all-penetrating Voice, that said to him, 
" Moses, the hour is come and thou must die." 
'' Lord, I obey ; but thou rememberest 
How thou, Ineffable, didst take me once 
Within thy orb of light untouched by death." 
Then the voice answered, "Be no more afraid: 
With me shall be thy death and burial." 
So Moses Avaited, ready now to die. 

And the Lord came, invisible as a thought. 

Three angels gleaming on his secret track. 

Prince Michael, Zagael, Gabriel, charged to guard 

The soul-forsaken body as it fell 

And bear it to the hidden sepulchre 

Denied forever to the search of man. 

And the Voice said to Moses : "Close thine eyes." 

He closed them. " Lay thine hand upon thine heart. 

And draw thy feet together." He obeyed. 

And the Lord said, " spirit ! child of mine ! 

A hundred years and twenty thou hast dAvelt 

Within this tabernacle wrought of clay. 

This is the end : come forth and flee to heaven." 

But the grieved soul with plaintive pleading cried, 
" I love this body with a clinging love : 
The courage fails me. Lord, to part from it." 

" child, come forth ! for thou shalt dwell with me 
About the immortal throne Avhere seraphs joy 
In growing vision and in growing love." 

Yet hesitating, fluttering, like the bird 
With young wing weak and dubious, the soul 



THE DEATH OF MOSES. 437 

Stayed. But behold ! upon the death-dewed lips 
A kiss descended, pure, unspeakable — 
The bodiless Love without embracing Love 
That lingered in the body, drew it forth 
With heavenly strength and carried it to heaven. 

But now beneath the sky the watchers all, 

Angels that keep the homes of Israel 

Or on high purpose wander o'er the world 

Leading the Gentiles, felt a dark eclipse : 

The greatest ruler among men was gone. 

And from the westward sea was heard a wail, 

A dirge as from the isles of Javanim, 

Crying, " Who now is left upon the earth 

Like him to teach the right and smite the wrong ? " 

And from the East, far o'er the Syrian waste, 

Came slowlier, sadlier, the answering dirge : 

" No prophet like him lives or shall arise 

In Israel or the world forevermore." 

But Israel waited, looking toward the mount. 
Till with the deepening eve the elders came 
Saying, " His burial is hid with God. 
We stood far off and saw the angels lift 
His corpse aloft until they seemed a star 
That burnt itself away within the sky." 

The people answered with mute orphaned gaze 
Looking for what had vanished evermore. 
Then through the gloom without them and within 
The spirit's shaping light, mysterious speech. 
Invisible Will wrought clear in sculptured sound. 
The thought-begotten daughter of the voice. 
Thrilled on their listening sense : " He has no tomb. 
He dwells not with you dead, but lives as Law." 



A 



ARION. 

(Herod, i. 24.) 

EION, whose melodic soul 

Taught the dithyramb to roll 
Like forest fires, and sing 
Olympian suffering, 



Had carried his diviner lore 
From Corinth to the sister shore 

Where Greece could largelier be, 

Branching o'er Italy. 

Then weighted with his glorious name 
And bags of gold, aboard he came 

'Mid harsh seafaring men 

To Corinth bound again. 

The sailors eyed the bags and thought ; 

" The gold is good, the man is naught - 
And who shall track the wave 
That opens for his grave ? " 

With brawny arms and cruel eyes 
They press around him where he lies 
In sleep beside his lyre. 
Hearing the Muses quire. 



ARION. 439 

He waked and saw tliis wolf-faced Death 
Breaking the dream that filled his breath 

With inspiration strong 

Of yet unchanted song. 

" Take, take my gold and let me live ! " 
He prayed, as kings do when they give 

Their all with royal will, 

Holding born kingship still. 

To rob the living they refuse. 
One death or other he must choose, 

Either the watery pall 

Or wounds and burial. 

" My solemn robe then let me don. 
Give me high space to stand upon. 

That dying I may pour 

A song unsung before." 

It pleased them Avell to grant this prayer, 
To hear for naught how it might fare 

With men who paid their gold 

For what a poet sold. 

In flowing stole, his eyes aglow 
With inward fire, he neared the prow 

And took his god-like stand. 

The cithara in hand. 

The wolfish men all shrank aloof. 
And feared this singer miglit be proof 

Against their murderous power. 

After his lyric hour. 



440 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

But lie, in liberty of song, 
Fearless of death or other wrong, 
With full spondaic toll 
Poured forth his mighty soul : 

Poured forth the strain his dream had taught, 
A noma with lofty passion fraught 

Such as makes battles won 

On fields of Marathon. 

The last long vowels trembled then 
As awe within those wolfish men : 
They said, with mutual stare, 
Some god was present there. 

But lo ! Arion leaped on high, 
Eeady, his descant done, to die ; 

Not asking, " Is it well ? " 

Like a pierced eagle fell. 



OH MAY I JOIN THE CHOIR INVISIBLE. 

Longum illud tempus, qitiim non ero, mar/is me movet, quam hoc 
exigmim. — Cicero, ad Att., xii. 18. 

OH may I join the choir invisible 
Of those immortal dead who live again 
In minds made better by their presence : live 
In pulses stirred to generosity, 
In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn 
For miserable aims that end with self, 
In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, 
And with their mild persistence urge man's search 
To vaster issues. 



So to live is heaven : 
To make undying music in the world, 
Breathing as beauteous order that controls 
With growing sway the growing life of man. 
So we inherit that sweet purity 
For which we struggled, failed, and agonized 
With widening retrospect that bred despair. 
Eebellious flesh that would not be subdued, 
A vicious parent shaming still its child 
Poor anxious penitence, is quick dissolved ; 
Its discords, quenched by meeting harmonies. 
Die in the large and charitable air. 
And all our rarer, better, truer self, 
That sobbed religiously in yearning song. 
That watched to ease the burden of the world. 



442 POEMS OF GEORGE ELIOT. 

Laboriously tracing what must be, 

And what may yet be better — saw within 

A worthier image for the sanctuary, 

And shaped it forth before the multitude 

Divinely human, raising worship so 

To higher reverence more mixed with love — 

That better self shall live till human Time 

Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky 

Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb 

Unread forever. 

This is life to come, 
Which martyred men have made more glorious 
For us who strive to follow. May I reach 
That purest heaven, be to other souls 
The cup of strength in some great agony, 
Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love, 
Beget the smiles that have no cruelty — 
Be the sweet presence of a good diffused, 
And in diffusion ever more intense. 
So shall I join the choir invisible 
Whose music is the gladness of the world. 



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